Paris, 1900
by No.13
Summary: Moulin Rouge AU with Seigaku and Hyoutei. Perfect pair with ToFu and some other canon pairings on the side. Eventual character death.
1. Chapter 1

**Moulin Rouge**

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**Pairing**: TezuFuji (main), one-sided AtoFuji; other canon pairings

Originally written for decollement in cactuscontinuum on lj

**Disclaimer: **Not mine; not even the plot is.

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**I**

* * *

It is the year 1900.

And the world is changing.

Tezuka Kunimitsu, though young, was very aware of the fact that old morals, antiquated ideals and long-standing sentiments were running out of time. Their existence was drawing to a close, slowly, but certainly, and with that, everything his parents and grandparents had believed and to a certain degree did still believe in, was doomed to give away to a new world.

And while people everywhere mourned the loss of old, venerated etiquette, there was something in the air that made this goodbye almost sweet.

Tezuka Kunimitsu, however, was no member of the new generation's young, hot-blooded idealists who wrote poetry about how the world had to be, proclaimed everything old worthless, pleaded for forsaking every kind of moral and dreamed of a society build on the goodness of the human heart.

To live on love and air – no, that was not, what had brought twenty year old Tezuka to this tumultuous, lively, infamous city on the Seine on one September evening. Neither was he one of those who replaced God with technical achievement; his believe in machinery was limited, because he held firm to that everything can only be as good as it's creator.

Everything considered his college friends might have been rather astonished had they heard Tezuka had crossed the Channel to enter the city of idealists itself. Had anyone dared to ask, he'd have received the following answer.

"Liberty." Tezuka had told his unsettled parents, "I want a chance to develop my own character free of influences and expectations. As you know yourself, if I stay here, I'll be caught in ever-the-same circles of society and those bounds will pose an unbreakable limit, not only for me personally, but also to my range of decision making."

Worried as his parents had been, they'd seen reason. And his grandfather had even been proud.

"Go over there, child, and live. So that, might God want it, if you come back, you won't fall prey to corruption and the temptations of this bored, frustrated society that can do nothing but watch its own demise helplessly with a glass of over-priced champagne."

And then his grandfather had turned away from the window, the sinking sun shining in through white lace curtains painting his face a gentle orange.

"I hope you'll learn something there. Maybe even _that_ …"

Tezuka had spent the longest time of his journey puzzling over his grandfather's parting words. He had heard the term before, but only from his more naïve friends, or from overly idealistic poets. But his grandfather was neither; he was a strict, upright man, who gave little for sentimental whims.

So he couldn't possibly have meant _that_.

* * *

Paris didn't quite show its bright side to Tezuka. And when he'd been directed to Montmartre in search of an affordable flat, he had his first experience with the long-anticipated, infamous bohemian liberty, which he found lacking at the Avenue des Champs-Elysées, where the old elite still ruled.

The sort of liberty he encountered in Montmartre was not quite what he had expected. There were drunken men singing on the streets, girls and women out in clothing that would not even be considered decent within closed rooms and generally …

… this was more what he'd thought a bordello looked like.

And when he looked out of the window of the worn-down one-room apartment he'd finally rented, bright, blinking letters spelling out "Moulin Rouge" glared cheekily up at him. Swallowing, he closed the shutters, praying they would hold for his stay, while trying to find his inner equilibrium.

The infamous Moulin Rouge was just on the other side of the street. This symbol for everything rotten, indecent, decadent; everything that his parents had ever warned him about. The incorporation of everything the old society stood for.

Well, he'd just have to live with it for now.

So he unpacked his rather meagre belongings, and before long his cherished type-writer was set up. He'd concluded he'd use his stay to write something. Ideally a play, as his mother would be overjoyed and literary accomplishment was always an impressive feature in one's curriculum vitae.

Rubbing his hands together, he sat down, posed them over the typewriter--

-- and suddenly there was an odd crash behind him, and then, faster than he could even turn around, the ceiling had given in.

Dust, a flutter of papers in the air and an odd shape swinging like a mutated pendulum - and Tezuka couldn't quite believe his eyes. The shape, it turned out, was humanoid, blond-haired, strangely dressed and snoring.

Vaguely dumbfounded, Tezuka approached the spectacle, while the unannounced visitor (whose foot obviously had been caught within some kind of contraption that left him dangling upside-down) remained soundly asleep.

Three equally astonished faces looking down from the apartment overhead returned his inquiring glance.

Until one of them straightened up and pushed up eerily reflecting glasses. "Ii data." And he appeared about to add something, but a man with hair that was longer that proper on purpose and a rare shade of bluish black took the spotlight.

"Good afternoon, dear neighbour." The glasses wearing man said with a bright smile that was almost as dazzling as the clothes he wore (which weren't anything out of the ordinary, really, but somehow that individual managed to make classical clothing look bohemian).

"I fear we have not been introduced yet – unforgivable, honestly; but fate has smiled down on us. So let us act according to Fortuna's wishes – please join us over a glass of wine one floor closer to heaven."

And Tezuka could only nod.

The moment he crossed the threshold to the apartment over his own, Tezuka discovered he'd failed to appraise the weirdness of those people. The sudden, break-through like arrival of the human bat (that by now had been transported to a divan, but had yet to wake up) had been too much for his brain at that moment.

But now, taking a closer look of the inhabitants of the upper floor, Tezuka couldn't help but wonder what kind of a world he was just entering. And that was, if he disregarded the strange assortment of draperies, odd, mismatched furniture and a rather random collection of clothes, ranging from exotic to absurd. Not to say anything about the layer of glitter that covered everything in sight. A strange heady smell of spices, exotic perfumes, old socks and male sweat drifted about, almost visible in its density.

"Welcome, welcome, to our humble abode, dear strange, please mind your step as the most dangerous, most dazzling, most spectacular items have taken residence up on our floor."

This, to Tezuka meant, he'd better not look down.

His attention was drawn away from the fascinating array as one from the mismatched group stepped forward, bearing himself in his bohemian style suit like any good circus director would. Even if, admittedly, his vocabulary was far more elaborate and he was wearing glasses.

"… to the world where the most fantastic becomes reality. We are Spectacular Spectacular – and this…"

With a rather charming smile, he stepped behind a person even Tezuka would consider tall. Though, Tezuka's first impression was rather influenced by the glass the man was holding. Especially the blubbering, green liquid in it.

"… is our ingenious inventor. No matter what you want, be it an onstage thunderstorm or a love potion, if you want to evoke a deus ex machina or a favourable reaction from your greatest critic, this is the man you should ask – Inui Sadaharu."

Inui smiled. And held out that liquid. "Would you like to try it?"

As politely as possible Tezuka shook his head, failing to notice the bemused smiles that were being exchanged behind his back.

"This very polite man here is Ootori Choutarou – one of the most talented musicians you'll find you ever met. There's hardly an instrument he can't play and – hum a tune and he'll write you done the score. Play a chord and he'll tell you the key."

The individual in question by now was as red as an overripe tomato. Which was somewhat at odds with his rather rare hair colour. Tezuka, however, felt quite grateful that there appeared to be at least one normal individual among his neighbours.

"And then there's our sleeping beauty- Akutagawa Jirou." A thumb pointed into the direction of the still gaping hole, where the fourth member of the theatre ensemble still dangled. "One of his kind. A brilliant actor, really, but suffering from a rare condition – narcolepsy."

Tezuka didn't quite know whether he was expected to gasp or ask for an explanation. As far as he knew narcolepsy wasn't common, true, but whether _suffering_ was really the right word to apply…

"Now, I won't tell you anymore, just be prepared to find yourself fascinated the moment he wakes up."

The other man glanced around, though Tezuka understood that the pause was for dramatic effect only. Still, the entire introduction was quite fetching, once one got used to its weirdness.

"Last but not least, let me introduce my humble self." An elegant bow. "My name is Oshitari Yuushi and I am the leader of Spectacular Spectacular. At your service."

The man possessed style. With a dramatic flair, but style nonetheless. Against his better judgement, Tezuka found himself just the slightest bit impressed. Like when he found a street musician that actually played well.

Still, his face expressed nothing of this when he bowed in front of those three expectant faces.

"Tezuka Kunimitsu. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

There was a moment of silence, but all of a sudden Oshitari's smile grew wider.

And more threatening.

Tezuka didn't quite step away. But, rather suspiciously he followed the direction, in which the dark haired man had turned his head. Looking over the odd knick-knacks covering the ground, until he arrived at the new connection between his own one-room apartment and this flat.

Where Jirou, snoring gently, was still dangling upside down.

But within the thick, tense silence, Tezuka felt that it wasn't his sleeping colleague, Oshitari was looking at.

"Say, Monsieur Tezuka…" Oshitari raised his voice, a dramatic trembolo enhancing his precise, smooth movements, "Might you perhaps be…."

And everybody was waiting with baited breath.

"A writer?"

"Well…" Tezuka wouldn't actually call himself a writer. Sure, he'd written short theatre pieces (which had been quite well received) during his time in college, written essays and short sketches in school and poetry in private, but he had yet to publish anything and thus earn the right to name himself a writer.

Still, Oshitari didn't appear put out. "You see, Monsieur Tezuka, we are currently without one. And a theatre ensemble without a writer is like a man without his heart; only a functional unit, like a golem, incapable of standing on his own feet, voicing his own thoughts, incapable to rear up against the constrictions of pre-made scripts like Prometheus against the Gods."

Tezuka merely raised an eyebrow. He happened to be rather fond of Prometheus, even if he thought there were better ways to go about a rebellion, but he wasn't about to tell that to a man he just met five minutes ago under the weirdest of circumstances.

Oshitari smiled rather benignly. "Don't mind what people tell you about manners, publishers or requirements. In my mind, if you can reproduce your thoughts on paper you are already a writer. It's only society that thinks it's the readers that make the writer, but this is already what makes us – Spectacular Spectacular – so spectacular. We are not like the rest of the world. We do not share their preference for the same, old stories! We want to realize new ideas, directly made into words and brought onto the stage without society meddling!"

Even though Tezuka almost recoiled from the pompous words, he reminded himself not to judge hastily. He'd come to Paris to get rid of all the prejudices that had been hammered into his head back in England, so maybe he ought to take the man in front of him a little more serious.

Certainly, the words used were pathetic and far too much. Though the intent behind them appeared honest – not like those people back at home holding speeches about the values of honesty and humanity and renouncing them the moment they stepped down from the podium.

Oshitari might not have the refined rhetorical skills of the upper class, but he had a vocabulary. And he was honestly enthusiastic.

Sensing his hesitation, Choutarou intervened with a smile. "It's not that bad, really. Just join us for a couple of days and try it – if it's not to your likening nobody's going to stop you from leaving."

Inui only nodded his silent agreement, then looked at his notebook again. "Should we stage on of your sketches we'll naturally share the profits with you."

… yes. He just had arrived in Paris and had on purpose not brought a lot of money with him. And writing home to ask his parents for more was not part of his plans either; what basically rendered him in dire need of a job.

So, after all, there was no actual reason to disagree.

Swallowing down the last bit of protest, Tezuka eventually nodded. "I guess I'll hazard a try."

"Excellent." Oshitari replied, while Choutarou looked overjoyed enough to spontaneously hug Tezuka. Inui chuckled behind his notebook, muttering something concerning the probability of Tezuka agreeing – and Tezuka silently wondered if it had really been a good idea to become a part of this madness.

A sudden change in the atmosphere however drew his mind away from all speculations.

"Tonight."

Oshitari's smirk grew promising, almost forebodingly dark.

"We'll celebrate."

Tezuka looked up; noticing how all heads turned abruptly and even Jirou woke with a hiccup.

"At the Moulin Rouge."

* * *

Red, electrically lit letters sparkled overhead, brightening the dark Parisian night sky and in front of Tezuka loomed well-polished, light brown double doors.

The gateway to the realm of Dionysus.

He could hear the music, fast, hard-paced; his mother would have claimed this was nothing any sane person could dance to; the smell of alcohol and smoke permeating the air, together with dark, sensuous perfumes, exotic aromas, and from time to time he caught a whiff of something even more forbidden. There were so many people milling around, he had at times difficulties to stick with his companions; black-clad men in tuxedos, members of every class of society had gathered here tonight.

He saw dark, polished horse-carriages being hidden in back alley, saw men, whose suits were torn and stitched – but all of them were so black, colourless, plain and plebeian compared to the women milling around. Dresses, so low cut and short that they ought not to be called dresses anymore, blood-red lips, faces as white as snow or darker than the night, bright, glittering diamonds, some faker than what was filling a lot of those décolleté and slowly he felt as if his senses were being over-stimulated.

And then, two stiff-standing, expressionless men opened the doors for the group and him.

Heavy, velvet draperies and finest, shimmering marble; red carpets on the ground and lively music, loud, half-hysterical laughter, women almost without dresses, skirts raised high enough to see garters, men with their shirts undone, bearing bright red lipstick marks all over their bodies, clinkering glasses, sparkling chandeliers, glittering necklaces, rose petals and top hats on the ground

Giggling women stumbled past him, their dresses in disarray and cheeks flushed, a stupidly smiling man following them on unsteady feet. A tumult to his left caught his attention; a closer glance revealed a dark-haired woman seductively sliding off her dress, while only a few paces father two men were plainly making out.

Swallowing, Tezuka did his best not to recoil in disgust – seeing the enthusiastic light in his new-found _friends'_ eyes told him such a reaction would not be appreciated – he let himself stiffly be pulled through the crowd, while the music was getting louder and louder.

And then, all of a sudden, a voice rose above all the uproar and automatically all heads turned toward a stage that Tezuka hadn't even noticed before.

"Welcome to our temple of delight, dear Gentleman." A broad-shouldered, gaudily dressed man by the name of Momoshirou Takeshi was announcing. The multicoloured lights were making his hair shine in more colours, than even his outfit consisted of, and Tezuka couldn't tell whether his enthusiasm was real or just a professional act.

"Tonight, let me acquaintance you with the most sensual pleasures known to earth! Don't be afraid to approach our beautiful ladies, but be sure to pay your respects to them! And now, without further ado, here are Moulin Rouge's most beautiful, wonderful, ladies!"

With a graceful turn, he swung away, and exactly at that moment the lights dimmed, a hushed silence hung over the crowd and only the stage remained well-lit. An unfamiliar tickling within his stomach made Tezuka hold his breath.

Without any prior warning the first chord crashed into the wide hall, loud and cheerful and the lights lit up explosively; the curtains were whisked aside faster than the eye could follow and then there were brightly dressed women on the stage, one more beautiful than the other, dark-skinned, light-skinned, exotic and familiar, one girlishly pretty, the next sensually tempting, naively cheerful and fatally beautiful…

His head was spinning.

The scents, the colours, the drink somebody – Oshitari perhaps?- had pressed into his hand only minutes ago was destroying his rationality, playing tricks on his senses and all he could do was lean against one of the velvet covered pillars, while he could dimly hear Oshitari cheering in the distance. Inui's eyes rested fixed on one dark-haired dancer on the left side of the stage, his mouth slightly open and for once, his pen wasn't moving.

Those girls up front were dancing the cancan, voluminous skirts swinging up and up and up and then, as if a magical chord had been played, those girls descended from the stage and mingled with the crowd beneath excited cheers from all directions.

Tezuka took a step back, leaning against the solid wood behind him and knew further retreat was impossible. His newfound friends had abandoned him, leaving only a half-empty bottle, a softly snoring Jirou and overturned glasses behind as the hall became submerged in spectacular chaos of loud music, flashy clothes and multicoloured lights.

Just slightly to his left he found Oshitari standing rather closely to one of the red-haired dancers that had displayed surprisingly acrobatic moves during the show. The girl (even though Tezuka would have sworn he could make out an Adams apple there) was smiling coyly up at the dark haired man.

He turned his head further, trying to find Choutarou – the only one who'd even acted remotely sane during the show, but failed to spy him anywhere. Tezuka couldn't have known that Ootori Choutarou had long since been friends with the Moulin Rouge's main pianist, Shishido Ryou and the two of them had disappeared backstage in search of a quieter environment.

Inui however appeared to be enjoying himself just fine, showing something in his notebook to that one particular dark haired dancer, whose figure showed a surprising lack of curves compared to the other women working here.

As fascinating this decadent spectacle was, Tezuka concluded, it wasn't quite to his likening. The way men let go of all rationality and reduced those women to means to fulfil their desires wasn't quite what he associated with bohemian spirit.

But just as he turned towards the exit, the spotlights turned to the stage again. And once more, Tezuka caught sight of the tall, dark haired man gesturing to the audience to calm down.

"Are you enjoying yourselves?" Momoshirou Takeshi yelled, once again amazed by the countless flushed face staring up at him. "Is this enough?"

And smirked widely when the crowd roared in reply. He'd never thought he'd reach this point. But here he was – with his main star waiting for his cue just behind the curtain.

"No?" Momoshirou asked for clarification and somewhere in the back of the crowd Tezuka felt like rolling his eyes.

Tonight was special, Momoshirou knew. Not only because of the show, but because of the audience – if things went well the Moulin Rouge would be finally able to cast of its image as a shady establishment and become a fully recognized musical theatre.

If things went well…

The Moulin Rouge's star had promised to do the very best to convince the Duke, but…

Now was not the time for doubts or contemplations. Momoshirou smiled brightly, banishing all his worries from his mind for those seconds spend basking in the spotlight.

"Now, I shall give the Moulin Rouge's brightest jewel"

And even before he'd finished his exclamation the crowd was already screaming in ecstasy, clapping and stomping and Momoshirou could only yell his words over the crowd.

"Here is Fujiko!"

And bow out elegantly, just as the lights went out.

A reverent hush settled over the crowd. Even Jirou lifted his head from his comfortable resting place, blinking confusedly at the sudden change of lights. A strange sort of tension lingered in the air, making all hair on Tezuka's body stand.

"Oh…" Inui whispered, glasses glinting in the dimmed lights, "Here we go…"

And Oshitari, one arm still loosely thrown around his somewhat worried-looking red-haired companion, leaned over to conspiratorially whisper into Tezuka's ear: "Watch closely. Because this…"

All eyes turned up towards the ceiling, the room had fallen completely silent.

"…is a moment, you'll never forget for the rest of your live."

For some odd, inexplicable reason, Tezuka's heart shuddered. Gooseflesh rose on his back and a hush went through the silence.

With teary eyes, Tezuka, too turned his head upwards, looked against the blinding lights, where the outlines of a vague shadow were becoming visible. Like a small, small bird, high up against the sun; he couldn't make out any details, yet the contours were becoming clearer with each passing second and Tezuka held his breath.

Up there, sitting gracefully on the swing-like contraption, was possibly the most stunning human being Tezuka had ever laid eyes on. Long, slim legs peeked out from underneath the long, high-slit dress, dangled elegantly, and not even the sparkling jewellery she was wearing could outshine her face.

Smooth, porcelain white skin glowed in the lights, soft, silky looking brown hair framed a beautiful face and when those rose-red lips opened, his heart stopped.

"Diamonds."

A voice, smooth and enchanting, cut through the spell that seemed to hover about the breathless crowd. Blue eyes sparkled within the light, sensuous and promising, stunning in their brightness that seemed to outshine even the precious jewellery decorating her thin neck.

A smile flashed at the expectant crowd; and then those tempting lips opened again.

"… are a girl's best friend."

And then the music set in and everything blurred together. The only thing Tezuka would be able to recall clearly later on was the way Fuji moved; all graceful, subtle gestures and elegant smiles. He forgot to even listen to the words of the song, too lost in the sound of that rich voice.

Tezuka didn't see the Moulin Rouge's director in his colourful clothes walk past him and approach a tall, well-dressed man. Didn't hear the words exchanged behind his back.

How Momoshirou greeted Duke Atobe Keigo and asked him how he liked their show. And how said Atobe inquired whether it would be later to meet the main star in private after the show.

Tezuka's eyes were mesmerized by that beautiful creature that had stepped of the swing to tease the crowd further, accepting presents of admires only to hand them to others, play them until they were on the ground, begging.

But no matter how far she took it, her voice remained strong, unruffled. Her act professional, perfect to a degree that Tezuka hadn't seen even in London's upscale theatres. Fujiko – if that was her real name – was the incarnation of every playwright's dream.

And then, all of a sudden, their eyes met.

Tezuka at first thought it was a fluke, or maybe he was just another poor, soon to be heart-broken person on the receiving end of that dazzling smile, but those sparkling blue eyes lingered. As if to exchange a secret message with him.

… No. He had to be imagining things. Certainly, the alcohol and the air had addled with his brain. There was no way Fujiko would notice him among this sea of over-zealous admirers.

So why exactly was his heart racing like that?

Desperately trying to clear his head, Tezuka did the only thing he could and tore his eyes away. Turning around he almost collided with a tall, well-dressed man deep in conversation with the Moulin Rouge's director in spite of the noise surrounding them.

That man in the black coat didn't look a year older than Tezuka himself, but the way he carried himself – maybe he was one of _those_ patrons. Those people that came here because things weren't working out at home anymore; that believed money could buy what they desired.

Still, this specimen in particular didn't quite fit the stereotype. But with a frown Tezuka turned around again as a pointed elbow courtesy of Oshitari connected with his side. The dark-haired man smirked, before wrapping an arm around his companion and disappearing into the rather indecently dancing crowd.

But there was no time for him to even register what Oshitari was about to do.

Because all of a sudden it seemed as if a spotlight had been aimed at his face; and Fujiko stood barely three metres away, surrounded by a kneeling admires. She was singing, something about women growing old, yet the words completely escaped Tezuka.

She'd caught his stare.

And was returning it with a soft little quirk of cherry-red lips; eyes sparkling with amusement. Tezuka held his breath, while the palms of his hands grew sweaty. He felt like tugging at the collar of his shirt, but willed his hands to remain motionless – and didn't even allow himself to give Fujiko anything other than a cool, collected glance in return.

Fujiko's smile widened, as if accepting an unvoiced challenge.

And without missing a beat or slipping up on a note, the Moulin Rouge's star detached herself from her fans, taking slow, almost predatory steps into Tezuka's direction. The young man didn't move, but his expression didn't change either; not even when Fujiko stopped right in front of him.

"Are you enjoying the show?" she whispered between her lines, a gloved hand coming to rest temptingly on Tezuka's shoulder. He could feel her warm breath on his cheek; barely heard her words over the thundering of his own heart.

He only nodded in reply, trying his best to keep his composure. Not that Fujiko was helping.

"I don't think you're enjoying it enough." She breathed directly into his ear; close enough for some strands of honey-brown hair to tickle Tezuka's cheek, "Why don't you join me on the dance floor?"

It wasn't a question, really. Good manners alone completely forbade Tezuka to reject any ladies' invitation; especially if that one was _this _extraordinarily beautiful.

Thus he inclined his head, stepped forward and put one hand on the small of her back, taking care not slip too low. For a split second he was almost surprised at how thin her waist seemed, how small that right hand felt within his grasp – and then the music changed.

He barely recognized the rhythm, yet long lessons had schooled him to automatically fall into step, stop thinking and let his body simply move along to the music. People always were surprised that a stiff man like himself was such an accomplished dancer, and he too could sense an ounce of astonishment in Fujiko's gaze, even if mirth was far more prominent.

Fujiko went along with long practiced ease, pressing herself even closer to Tezuka, so that he could feel their bodies touching. And sense the warmth radiating from her. She tilted her head to smile at him, as if to say his dancing skills were still rather _mada mada dane_.

Tezuka calmly raised an eyebrow and spun her around – skirt and hair flying – before calmly catching her again. Blue eyes glittered.

Left foot back. Wait. Right foot to the side; then two steps forward.

Fuji's left arm sneaked around his neck, teasingly playing with his hair; her body once again pressed closer than was decent – and Tezuka could feel every breath she took, every rise and fall of her chest.

Stop. Tezuka leaned forward, forcing her to bend backwards.

But Fujiko wasn't a well-accomplished dancer for nothing – she leaned back with ease, completely letting Tezuka support her weight, even as she found her head mere centimetres away from the wooden floor.

With a daring smile she let her left foot teasingly slide down Tezuka's leg, but the man firmly clung onto his composure. And dance time was almost up, too.

Tezuka spun her one last time, catching her expertly in his arms afterwards and found she looked even more beautiful, slightly flushed like this. He could feel his expression soften, but the conversation remained one-sided.

"You're a very good dancer – I like that." And than her voice grew softer, even more tempting and there was a light in her eyes Tezuka hadn't seen before.

"Why don't you come to the elephant after the show? I'll be waiting…"

And with one last coy brush of hair against his cheek she was gone, wading through throngs of admires like a queen; beautiful and aloof, singing once again that song about diamonds and women.

His mind was still spell-bound and his skin still tingled, and he didn't even notice how Inui came to stand at his side, eyeing him in unveiled interest. Neither did he notice the jealous glares he was being flashed by countless other men – all he could see were those sparkling blue eyes.

Even if this was fake – it was wonderfully thrilling.

Fujiko was distant again, settling gracefully on the swing once more. Her voice filled the hall, richer than ever and maybe it was just a trick of the light, but she appeared paler than before.

The swing begun its slow ascend as the song approached its final chords; notes getting longer and longer, yet Fuji effortlessly sung them all. No strain showed on her face, not even as the swing had almost reached the ceiling.

And then the music paused, allowing a solo for the singer, but…

Tezuka knew the moment he saw those red lips move in an inaudible gasp. Choutarou turned around the second the music remained silent a beat longer than scripted. Momoshirou's eyes widened in panic, while the crowd still watched in pure fascination.

'She can't breath.' Tezuka thought in shock, and before he even had grasped the implications, Fujiko's eyes fluttered closed. Still so stunningly graceful her body slowly sunk backwards; then small white fingers let go of the ropes.

She fell; a flutter of pale robes and honey-brown hair softly fluttering around that small body; a speechless crowd frozen motionless with shock.

Before anybody could even blink, however, her prone figure had been caught by a broad-shouldered man – not a guest here, Tezuka thought, judging by his plain clothes. A stage hand perhaps; or maybe one of the guardsmen; who, in a touching display of gentleness, gathered Fujiko in his arms and carefully carried her through the still silent crowd.

And out of sight, leaving some hundred men wondering what fate had befallen the Moulin Rouge's star. Even Tezuka couldn't shake off the sense of unease, the need to know that this was none of the tragic fates one Alexandre Dumashad written about.

But suddenly, as if nothing had happened, the Moulin Rouge's director was back on stage. Tezuka never heard what he shouted, but around him, the party continued.

* * *

Behind the scenes however things were far grimmer.

Momoshirou started running the moment he was out of the spotlight, immensely grateful that the dancers had taken their cue and immediately been ready to go on stage again. Even Kaidou and Gakuto had gone out, even though Momoshirou knew those two were quite close to Fuji.

No trace of Eiji, one of the Moulin Rouge's two famous acrobats, could be found onstage, but that was natural, he supposed, passing several stage hands in varying states of distress. As long as the show went on, everything was alright…

Momoshirou bit his lip and ducked underneath one old, dirty curtain that separated a small corner from the rest of the backstage area. Surrounded by a small group of worried friends Fuji rested on a worn couch; face far paler than normal.

Kawamura lingered silently in the background, concern written all across his features, but there was little he could do. There was little anyone could do, as even their long-time honorary doctor only gently shook his head in reply to something Eiji had asked.

"Oishi…" Momoshirou tentatively set out, still somewhat breathless from his short sprint backstage. The Duke was waiting, a small part of his mind reminded him, but right now there were far more important things.

Oishi looked up from his conversation with Eiji, a frown on his face. Almost tiredly he straightened up and his expression was already saying more than the Moulin Rouge's director wanted to hear.

"Momoshirou, it's…"

He didn't even finish his sentence as Fuji started coughing all of a sudden. Dry, painful coughs in the beginning, but they turned wet and hacking and Momoshirou felt all colour drain from his face.

Ice froze his mind and he could only watch helplessly as Eiji gently procured a handkerchief and began dabbing it against Fuji's mouth, making soothing noises. Oishi remained standing where he was – he already knew there was nothing he could do.

But when that white handkerchief came away sprinkled with blood, Momoshirou felt as if the ground underneath his feet had disappeared.

This meant…

"… should rest for tonight." He only belatedly caught the end of Oishi's sentence, eyes still transfixed on Fuji's prone form. The doctor was eyeing him with his lips pressed into a grim line, while Eiji made no move to hide the tears glittering in his eyes.

Momoshirou was about to nod, when a small voice in the back of his head protested. "But the Duke requested…"

"Momoshirou." Oishi said fiercely, "This isn't about requests of some wealthy gentlemen anymore. For Fuji this has become a matter of life and death. If …"

"It's Atobe Keigo." Momoshirou could only utter, feeling completely hopeless, "We can't refuse him…"

Oishi, too, fell silent. The name Atobe was well-known, not only in Paris. The young duke belonged to generation of heirs, which generally said little about their own capacities – yet Atobe Keigo had proved himself to be exceptionally gifted. With barely twenty he hadn't – like many of his peer group – spend his father's fortune, but tripled it.

His business acumen was legendary. His style notorious. His capabilities frightening.

But still, Fuji…

A soft cough drew Oishi's attention away from the turmoil inside his mind; and Momoshirou, too, turned to look at Fuji. Still too pale, and those blue eyes were slightly glazed, but their star was conscious and trying his best to sit up.

"I'll…" Fuji cleared his throat, swallowing down the metallic taste, "I'll meet him."

A gentle smile spread over blood-red lips and Momoshirou wondered if this was what heart-break felt like.

"Don't worry, you two. Just leave it to me."

* * *

_tbc_

Thank you very much for reading and please feel free to share any thoughts, comments and/or critic with me.


	2. To the elephant

**Moulin Rouge **

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* * *

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Pairing:

TezuFuji (main), one-sided AtoFuji; other canon pairings

Originally written for decollement in cactuscontinuum on lj

**A/N**: Hehe, what I kinda forgot to mention last time – Fuji is not female. It's only that Tezuka who doesn't know that (yet).

**To everybody who reviewed**: Thank you very, very much for not only taking time to read this but also to drop me a line. It always means a lot to me to get some feedback on whether the fic is nice to read; whether everybody is in character and so on. You guys make my day!!

**Disclaimer: **Not mine; not even the plot is.

* * *

Tezuka had been glad when the show was over, because for all impressive cleavages and stunning performances, he hadn't quite been able to enjoy himself any longer. He kept recalling Fujiko's smile and the way those sky blue eyes had sparkled in amusement.

And regardless how he much tried to deny it, he couldn't quite quench the ounce of worry that had taken root in the depth of his stomach.

So when Inui had turned to go – even though Choutarou had yet to rejoin them – Tezuka had frowned and then mentioned his invitation to the elephant. Whatever said elephant was.

"The inner sanctuary of the Moulin Rouge." Inui had explained, pushing up his glasses, "A metal structure in form of an elephant, housing Fujiko's private chambers."

And Tezuka had swallowed. He'd contemplated not going, but Oshitari, who'd still not let go of his companion, had objected that he couldn't possibly turn down such an invitation. Thus, he'd let himself dragged backstage by Oshitari.

"But do you think it is okay?" Tezuka asked as they were passing several stage hands that were busy with cleaning, "After all _she_ fainted…"

Curiously enough Oshitari's companion who looked far too young to even enter an establishment like the Moulin Rouge - much less even work there - answered in a surprisingly mature fashion. "If Momo didn't tell you otherwise, then I guess it should be okay."

"But…" before finishing the red-head glanced up at Oshitari who looked far too amused for Tezuka to be at ease. And indeed…

"Didn't you notice?" Oshitari whispered; a devilish smirk on his handsome face, "S_he_ is a he."

Tezuka blinked in disbelief. Recalled the long, smooth legs, that thin waist and those small hands – he had touched the soft skin, so there was absolutely no way…

Oshitari grinned and his red-haired companion burst into laughter, drawing some curious stares. "Don't tell me he really didn't know?" the red-head asked the blue-haired man, ignoring Tezuka – who wondered if the ground couldn't be nice and just swallow him _now_ - completely for the moment.

Tezuka tried his best to objectively recall those minutes he'd spend dancing far-too close with the subject of their discussion. They'd been chest to chest – Tezuka remembered, trying his best to fight down the on-coming blush – true enough, the softness he'd heard college-time friends praise extensively, hadn't quite been there. But even so …

Wiping at his tearing eyes Oshitari shook his head. "Nope. And if you ask me he still doesn't believe me."

Perhaps it was possible, Tezuka had to admit. Still; the idea that beautiful Fujiko was not of the fairer gender seemed absolutely absurd in his mind. Because that meant he …

Then the red head suddenly turned to Tezuka. "Monsieur, my friend here told me you doubt Fujiko-chan's gender, so, if I'm allowed to ask, of what gender do you believe me to be?"

Tezuka could only raise an eyebrow. He had a bad, bad feeling about this, but answered nonetheless. "Female?"

Because really, said red-head had chin-length hair and was wearing a very, very short skirt.

"Nope." At least that one didn't feel offended – which was somewhat good, but Tezuka couldn't help but feel that he was being made fun of. "Mukahi Gakuto. One hundred percent male. Everything else is just the clothes."

Not that Oshitari was helping the scene along. "Still so innocent, Tezuka." He muttered, absentmindedly patting Gakuto's head as he succumbed to giggles, "Didn't you notice that about half of the _girls_ up there actually were male?"

Tezuka refused to answer that question. He'd cling to the last shreds of his dignity as long as he could; and thankfully Oshitari didn't seem inclined to ridicule him any further.

"Fujiko's just like that. Most people can't tell, but it's a well-known secret." Oshitari smiled, rather honestly this time around, "You're pretty lucky to be invited to the elephant straight away – most guys keep dreaming of a chance like that for their entire life."

Gakuto had recovered from his giggling fit enough to add his two cents in, too.

"You're very lucky indeed! And take good care of Fujiko-chan!"

The boy left with a cheerful wave, but Tezuka had heard the "or I'll do something really, really painful that'll make you sorry for the rest of your life" rather clearly. Well, luckily enough he had absolutely no intention of doing anything harmful.

* * *

Thus, he let himself be guided into the inner realm of the elephant, wondering why his fingers wouldn't stop trembling.

So, here he stood, feeling completely out of place among the opulent decorations in more shades of red than he could name. Velvet and silk, sparkling gemstones and golden trims glowing under rich, almost sensuous lightening. He felt like a penguin in a king's treasury in his old black-and-white smoking.

And most probably was moving just as stiffly.

What was he going to do?

First night in a bordello at all, and then the Moulin Rouge of all places. And then he'd somehow promptly managed to score a one-on-one date with the star of stars, with the admittedly most beautiful human being he'd ever come across.

Even though his mind was still reeling from Oshitari's latest revelation.

And then, suddenly there was no more time for contemplations, because the doors opened (Inui thankfully choose that moment to disappear from his perch outside of the large window, though Tezuka had no doubt he was going to stay close by - for the data) and then he forgot to think anymore.

Clad in a black, eastern-style gown only held together by a wide, purple belt wrapped around her (no, Tezuka had to correct himself – his) small waist the Moulin Rouge's sparkling diamond flashed the simply most breathtaking smile he'd ever seen at him.

"Good evening, dear Duke." The sensuous creature whispered, voice honeyed and husky, "I hope you enjoyed the show."

With that he advanced, a long, long white leg emerging from the robe-like dress, revealing high stockings and polished black heels.

"My name is Fuji Syusuke." Another breath-taking smile on red-painted lips, "And I shall be honoured to entertain you tonight."

Even if Tezuka was completely mesmerized by the beauty so close to him, he'd been raised to be polite – thus staring, especially open-mouthed, was absolutely out of question. Instead, Tezuka recalled every word he'd ever heard concerning good behaviour.

"Tezuka Kunimitsu, at your service." He said, proud at how smooth his voice sounded and bowed. "It is truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Fuji smiled rather coyly. "There is nothing I should hope more for than for it to pleasure you, dear Duke."

Why was he calling him Duke? But maybe that was the way things worked here, so Tezuka wouldn't question the meaning, if he could make Fuji stop. His act was flawless and for all Tezuka could read that smiling face opposite of him Fuji might really be pleased to meet him, but then again he'd already seen how convincing Fuji could be up on stage.

"Please call me Tezuka." Was his only request, just to make things between them a little more real, a little less of a staged play.

"As you wish, dear Du – Tezuka." Fuji stepped deeper into the room, drifting dangerously close to the king-sized bed, "Would you like some wine?"

Tezuka could only wordlessly shake his head, mesmerized by those swaying hips – exaggerated perhaps, and most certainly ridiculous on any other person, yet the movement seemed perfectly right on Fuji.

"Or would you like to start with something else?"

Fuji sat down among silk cushions and velvet linen, smiling enticingly up at him.

Tezuka felt the blood rush to his head. If he hadn't turned tomato red before, he most certainly was now. (And honestly, tomato red was absolutely at odds with all the other shades of red decorating this lair.)

Tilting his head in an unspoken invitation, Fuji leaned backwards, and Tezuka knew if he didn't look away now, he was definitely doomed. Thankfully, self-preservation instincts prevailed. And his composure – brittle though it was – remained intact.

"Perhaps we should start by getting to know each other."

A raised eyebrow was covered by another seductive smile within a split second. Tezuka would have almost missed the surprised expression on Fuji's face, hadn't he been studying his reflection on the window pane quite intently.

"That sounds interesting – so why don't you come over here, so that we can get _acquainted._"

Tezuka bit his lip to keep his face from flushing at the implications. Retaining a straight expression, he smoothly replied. "I like the view from here."

Long, dark eyelashes fluttered suggestively. "Do you, now? Well, what would you like to see me do, then?"

"Just act as you please." Tezuka promptly replied in an attempt to cool the situation. Even with his back to the window, the night air penetrating the badly isolated glass pane didn't nearly feel cold enough.

Smooth skin glowed far too brightly in the golden tinted light when Fuji gracefully leaned backwards – and the right half of his robe-like gown started sliding off his shoulder.

"Oh, but I'll only be pleased when you are, Monsieur Tezuka." Fuji breathed huskily, "So you'll have to help me out here."

Tezuka shuddered. He couldn't keep his eyes distracted by the odd knickknacks populating the room any longer, the picture in front of his was simply too delicious. Blood-red lips, half-opened; a hooded glance cast into his direction; smooth white skin stretched over fragile-looking, well-defined collarbones and…

His eyes inevitably slid downward. And encountered the undeniable lack of a bosom.

… right. Oshitari had told him.

"I thought you were a woman." Tezuka abruptly blurted out and Fuji almost fell off the bed from shock. Lips opened and closed, but no sound emerged – and while Tezuka could have smacked himself for the rudeness of his declaration; at least he had successfully defused the situation.

Wide-open blue eyes blinked at him in confusion. "You, wh … You didn't know? You… I mean…"

So Fuji, smooth as he was, could loose his perfect composure, too. And Tezuka found he liked this flustered boy that suddenly looked far younger than his prior comportment had let on much better.

"Nobody told me earlier and your performance is rather convincing." Tezuka told him dryly.

"But … doesn't it disgust you?" Fuji asked, still atypically flustered, "I mean if you thought I was female and, I don't know, just found out…"

For those few seconds of silence Fuji looked truly worried and Tezuka was surprised that his reaction would mean so much to a person he'd only met two hours ago. Wasn't he just one of many? But in spite of his bewilderment, Tezuka felt an even more pressing urge to sooth those worries.

"Not really, I guess. It's been common practice for a long time to have male actors act female parts; and your performance was quite brilliant. And well," he said, a slight smile on his face though he didn't quite know how it had gotten there, "I always rather liked Catull."

Fuji blinked, and Tezuka felt his heart warming at the sight of a real smile spreading across the boy's face, before starting to chuckle. "Catull, ne."

Tezuka waited until Fuji had recovered from his fit of mirth; glad the tension had faded from those small shoulders. They boy's complexion was still a tad to pale underneath the make-up in his opinion, but maybe he was reading too much into little things.

"But still, most people do despise this." Fuji said with a half-bitter smile and Tezuka was surprised to see the boy's mask disappear for a moment. "Men disguising as women and selling their bodies to other men."

A soft sigh, but then Fuji continued. "I understand why people behave like this, but I can't help thinking at times that they're all being quite hypocritical. I mean, if all was right with their morals, there'd be no need for this."

Tezuka swallowed. The boy was sharper than he'd accounted for, and while that was generally a good thing, those words made him feel like reaching out and embracing him. Take his hand and drag him out of this depressing, golden cage…

Unaware of Tezuka's thoughts, Fuji carried on: "But that's okay, I guess. It's something else for those really in love. You know, my best friend is actually together with another man, but they can't tell anybody, least of all their families …"

He let the sentence trail of and the smile looked a little sad; a little lost, like that of a child that had grown up too fast.

"Prostitution is one thing, but I think love is a free emotion. Society errs too often to be credible and, I think, mankind should be allowed more liberty in decision making." Tezuka slowly contemplated, taking into account the different ideas of freedom he'd read about.

Because, if applied consequently and without allowing for fabricated exceptions, freedom in choosing a partner would allow for same sex relationships. Even though, Tezuka resumed, feeling almost bitter; he'd yet had to hear that thought voiced.

"Are there a lot of unhappy marriages where you come from, too?" Fuji questioned with the air of somebody who had seen far too many. Tezuka didn't doubt he had; the boy's occupation mainly existed because of unhappy marriages.

"… I guess there are." Tezuka replied, recalling all those rumours he'd heard exchanged behind closed doors, over gold-rimmed tea cups in decadent saloons. "But what is far worse is the way they deal with it, I think. On one hand they complain and have all their secret little affairs, on the other hand nobody dares to honestly contemplate getting a divorce."

"Because they aren't as unhappy as they claim to be." Fuji replied, "Those people are quite happy to live like that, able to indulge in their selfishness and maintain a proper façade. Even though they've got no clue as to what love actually is."

He smiled and Tezuka felt his heart warm at the sight. "No, they don't. Those people never learned to appreciate a person beyond their assets – and society not only allows them, but etiquette even encourages them to do so."

Fuji nodded thoughtfully and Tezuka, unusually talk-active as he was tonight, continued. "Etiquette and morals have become too much of something to hide behind instead of acting responsibly. I guess there is nothing wrong about loving somebody of the same gender if one stands to his decision."

With a smile he turned back to Fuji, finding the smaller boy close enough to see himself reflected in wide, dark pupils.

"I think love is not so much about gender, social standing or plain physical attraction, but about the person." Tezuka declared and was surprised at his own words and the conviction he felt.

The smile Fuji directed at him in return was even more beautiful from up close – and breathtakingly honest. Deep within him Tezuka felt this was no act of routine anymore when the boy tilted his head slightly backwards. The words exchanged between them had been deeper than a usual conversation.

There was feeling of connectedness Tezuka had never before experienced. This bond between the two of them was something very, very rare and precious.

With trembling lips he leaned forward, still wondering at what was happening to him but completely convinced at the same time that neither Tyche nor Dionysus had instigated this.

And as there was barely a distance left between their lips, somebody knocked on the door.

"Are you decent?" Momoshirou cheerfully called and Tezuka stumbled backwards in surprise. "The Duke is waiting!"

Perplex Fuji turned to look at Tezuka. Blue eyes met brown and Tezuka felt a shiver crawl down his spine, pinned by the intensity of that look. Even though he felt like panicking and wouldn't have been surprised if Fuji got mad at him, the boy in question only quirked another, rather dry smile.

"So you're not the Duke." Fuji stated. And then, with a dramatic sigh, "I guess that was to be expected."

Tezuka wanted to ask what exactly he meant by that and took a step forward, only to be interrupted by a second, more urgent knock.

"Fujiko-chan We're coming in!"

Tezuka panicked. Glancing around he found no hiding spot near enough – and the door was already opening. His heart raced, his mind went into overdrive and cold sweat was forming on his forehead – what to do, what to do, what to do?

And before he could even put any distance between himself and Fuji his eyes encountered another brown pair – one that was just as shocked. But Momoshirou Takeshi hadn't survived all those years in the showbiz without learning anything. Even if there was a strange man in a chamber reserved for the highest paying customers only – and the man in question wasn't a customer Momoshirou did remember meeting – he had to remain calm.

The show must go on.

"Fujiko, this is the venerable man who is going to finance our very first musical, Duke Atobe Keigo."

A spark lit up in Fuji's sea blue eyes and successfully drew all attention to him with a stifled gasp. Since Tezuka was being ignored for the time being, he used the chance to study this Atobe Keigo closer.

The man was impeccably, if extravagantly dressed. Up close he could see that his suit wasn't black, but a dark shade of purple with silver embroideries – that matched the colour of his hair. His skin was flawless, his posture perfect and completely self-confident, his behaviour spoke of experience and education and all Tezuka could do was not groan out loud.

He knew this type. They were a lot of talk, but what made them worse was that they more often than not could actually back up their big words. And this specimen in particular looked less than pleased at finding the person he had _reserved_with another man. Alone.

Fuji however remained completely in control.

"It is an honour to finally meet you." A dazzling smile directed at Atobe and the man instantly forgot about Tezuka's very existence. In one smooth move he reached out and grasped the gloveless hand Fuji was offering.

Lips met skin and Tezuka felt strangely uncomfortable at the sight. Momoshirou's face didn't waver, but his eyes spoke another language as the Duke's lips lingered. Then the man straightened up to his full height and Fuji had to tilt his head to look up at him.

"Enchanté, mon chéri." Atobe suavely returned with a smile that promised more than an ordinary human being dared to dream about.

Fuji's eyes were sparkling and remained fixed on Atobe, apparently completely lost in the other man's presence.

"You wouldn't believe how glad I felt when Momo told me you were willing to help us stage our very first musical. At that moment I just knew I had to meet the man about to realize my dreams."

"It shall be our honour." Atobe smoothly replied. "Our only regret is not having known earlier about the vast pool of talent and beauty hidden among the streets of Montmartre."

"Now is as good as anytime, dear Duke." Momoshirou chimed in with a wide grin and earned himself a lukewarm smile from Atobe.

Fuji's smile brightened a notch and from the corner of his eye Tezuka noted Momoshirou turning away for a moment, while Atobe visibly basked in the warmth of said smile.

"Your timing most certainly leaves nothing to be desired." Then Fuji tilted his head, as if slightly embarrassed. "My manners, I fear, however do. Though I hope you'll excuse me if I say I was bewitched by your unrivalled charisma."

Atobe heaved a pretentious, long-suffering sigh, but remained smiling. "Rest assured you're not the first one to be intoxicated by our charm."

"I'm most relieved to hear so." Fuji brightly replied, "Now, before I forget again, please let me introduce to our script writer Tezuka Kunimitsu – the man who is writing the musical and probably already preparing the latest scene in his head as we speak."

"He's one of the young and upcoming talents in the scene." Momoshirou added, sounding as if he'd known Tezuka for all his life. "We're very glad he agreed to join our production."

"Oh?" a perfect eyebrow shot up.

Tezuka, even if he was rather confused, obediently took his cue and bowed, while Fuji staged a giggle at his side. But underneath the wide smile those blue eyes were fixed on Momoshirou.

"He just came by with the script for the latest scene and I insisted we rehearse it right now." Another coy giggle. "I hope you'll forgive my enthusiasm."

Atobe smiled rather benignly. "Most certainly, mon chéri. But if you'd honour our curiosity – what is the play going to be about?"

The instant of silence was short but all-encompassing. Tezuka struggled for an answer, but Momoshirou beat him to it.

"The most important thing in the world – Love, of course."

"Set against the changing context of social obligations and the modern ideas about personal freedom." Tezuka added for the sake of his personal pride. Even though Momoshirou almost flinched Fuji repaid him with a grateful smile – and Atobe nodded thoughtfully.

"Set in India." Fuji added with sparkling eyes.

Tezuka, at that moment, for the first time in his entire life experienced what it meant to be in over his head. Or so he thought. When a frighteningly familiar, new voice joined the conversation, the sensation increased tenfold.

"With bewitching, exotic music!" Oshitari exclaimed, emerging from behind one of the curtains, a red scarf wrapped around his head, fixed with a diamond brace and a sitar under his arm. Strumming two chords he gestured to a more shaded area – and the real music started.

Whatever Oshitari had said about Choutarou's musical talent obviously was correct. The boy had talent – even when using a mere piano to create the impression of oriental music.

Momoshirou – completely unfazed by the emergence of yet more unknown men – joined in. "And acrobatics!" Waving one arm, two of the dancers Tezuka had admired on stage earlier this evening practically somersaulted into the room.

Each of the red-heads then proceeded to present short, but stunning belly dance and froze obediently the moment the music stopped. But Atobe, whose powers of perception were also nearing the limit Tezuka's had already passed, wasn't allowed a break.

"Magic and electricity!" Oshitari yelled and Inui dramatically pushed a switch, setting of a spectacle of miniature explosion and multicoloured lights flickering too fast for the eyes to get used to. Tezuka felt dizzy after a few seconds, but didn't dare to close his eyes.

Atobe, too, looked to shades paler after Inui had finished, and supposedly to stop the insanity from growing any wilder raised his hands. "Yes, yes – but what is the story about?"

Momoshirou was prompt to reply. "Well, there's the courtesan. The fairest in the entire land."

Fuji elegantly raised one arm, hiding the lower half of his face behind a black silk sleeve and directed one absolutely enchanting glance at Atobe – his eyes were even more fetching as the smile was hidden.

"Who falls in love…" he whispered temptingly, "…with a poor sitar player."

If Oshitari was surprised at his sudden turn of being in the spotlight no one could tell. The man only tilted his head and strummed four or five melancholic chords, looking very melodramatic while doing so.

"But alas." Tezuka added with a straight face and the sane part of his mind was left wondering what he was doing, "They aren't free to choose their fates, as society won't allow them to break from their roles."

"They have to meet in secrecy." Oshitari continued, a note of melancholy in his voice, gently stroking the sitar.

Momoshirou spontaneously reached for a white scarf and a red, over-decorated coat, slipping both things on and joining the act. "But there is the Maharajah."

The director reached out, wrapping on arm around Fuji's slim shoulders and forcefully pulled him close. "Who is in love with the courtesan."

"But still…" Fuji whispered, putting his hand over his heart with all the air of a girl suffering from heart-break, "…she only loves the sitar player."

He elegantly stretched out his other hand into Oshitari's direction. The dark-haired man strummed two sad chords on his sitar. "And he loves her too." He replied, mirroring the gesture.

Something tightened in Tezuka's chest at the scene and from the corner of his eye he caught Gakuto frowning. Their little impromptu rehearsal had gathered a lot of curious onlookers by now and he recognized Jirou (appearing awake and frighteningly enthusiastic), many showgirls and some black-dressed stage hands; all eyeing the spectacle with a mixture of surprise and amusement, some even tapping their feet along to whatever tune Choutarou played.

"However!" Momoshirou exclaimed, advancing towards Atobe; one arm sweeping through the room, "Their love is discovered by one of the Maharajah's spies!"

Darkness fell abruptly; while the duke echoed. "A spy?"

A click, and then a sole light flickered up, casting deep shadows on Oshitari's face. "A spy indeed and he immediately reports his findings to the Maharajah."

Momoshirou stood tall, undaunted by the light suddenly pointed into his direction. Tilting his chin proudly upwards, he frowned and twirled his imaginary beard.

"The Maharajah devises a plan." Tezuka explained evenly, his deep voice sounding eerily ominous in the almost complete darkness, "To have the sitar player murdered."

A dramatic gasp echoed through the room and then there was a moment of complete, tense silence. Tezuka tried to think of how the story would end; of any suitable conclusion, but as if on a secret cue, the room practically _exploded_.

All lights came on at once, blinding Tezuka; the music went from non-existent to fortissimo; a burst of confetti overhead; miniature fireworks to his right; a flurry of activity with people practically falling over each other.

Oshitari stepped forward, drawing himself up to his full height.

"Drama and passion. Love and Jealousy. A play so intense that it'll take your breath and blind your senses. A love story as if written by Eros himself; set within a scenery that'll make the muses pale with envy. This will be different from anything previously seen; this will secure you the lead position with the avant-garde!"

And then he bowed aside, some bed-sheet turned curtain was dropped and the spotlight focused on the little group posing in the room's centre. Fuji with a red scarf wrapped around his head in the middle; one of Oshitari's arms wrapped around his waist. Looming behind him, almost threatening with his dark gaze, stood Momoshirou; Eiji and Gakuto kneeled of to the sides, in clothes that somehow managed to pass for a belly-dancer's outfit. And confetti still snowed down upon them.

"The audience will love it!" Momoshirou enthusiastically proclaimed with confetti stuck to his hair and his face flushed bright red. "Guaranteed!"

And as much as Atobe Keigo had been fascinated by the show; had even allowed himself to be pulled into this; here was the point where his business acumen emerged. Instead of cheerfully agreeing, the Duke tilted his head and let a long, calculating glance sweep over the persons in front of him.

A weird group, but capable of doing their jobs. And Fuji was even more beautiful up close; so if sponsoring a little acting group's dream would help him to become closer then he wouldn't mind putting up with some idiocy.

Those beautiful blue eyes had attracted him the moment he'd seen them open back at the show. That rich voice had sent shudders down his spine and when he'd imagined holding this graceful creature in his very own arms, his heart had fluttered in anticipation.

Adonis had to be jealous of such beauty, Atobe had thought, staring dreamily at that slender figure moving so effortlessly through the crowd.

If he could make Fuji his, then he wouldn't care about the money spent.

"We suppose this looks somewhat promising." Atobe declared at long last.

Momoshirou was well-versed enough to pick up the cue. "Please join me in my office to discuss the details, then."

"Kabaji." Atobe called as they turned to leave and for the first time Tezuka noted the fearsomely tall, black-clad man following the Duke like a shadow.

* * *

"Hm, the Duke looks rather handsome." One of the girls muttered the moment Momoshirou, Tezuka and Atobe had left the scene. There was some giggling and a loud hiss from Kaidou.

"Nya, but the other guy – what was his name again – looked really good, too." Eiji declared, bouncing over to wrap an arm around Fuji's shoulders.

"Tezuka." Fuji muttered in reply, still looking too pale in Eiji's opinion. What worried the red-head more however was the way his friend's body shivered.

Gakuto, too, flashed a wide smile at Fuji. "He was quite cute, that one."

Both acrobats exchanged significant glances, deeming the small area in front of the elephant as far too crowded, but clueless as how to diffuse the mass of giggling girls. Eiji gently began pulling Fuji inside, while Gakuto turned to look for Shishido, who somehow managed to grasp the situation at once. The tall young man spontaneously approached the group.

"Oi, you!" he called, looking annoyed and successfully distracting the girls from stopping Fuji's and Eiji's retreat, "What are you doing here? Don't you have work to do?"

The girls scattered, looking somewhat petulant about being denied being privy to the latest rumours, but Shishido's glare allowed for no pardon. And anyways, Eiji had already closed the door behind himself and Fuji.

"Sit down first." Eiji admonished his long-time friend, "You're still not looking well."

Fuji didn't even protest but sank down into one of the over-stuffed arm chairs with a sigh. He accepted the glass of water pressed in his hand silently and didn't flinch away when Eiji pressed a hand against his forehead.

"You don't seem to have a fever." The red-head state with a slight degree of relief, "But how are you feeling?"

Under normal circumstances Fuji would have flashed his brightest smile at Eiji and declared himself perfectly healthy and perfectly happy. Tonight however too much had happened.

"Okay I suppose." Fuji replied, still managing a small smile. And then: "I should have known he was too nice to be the Duke."

Blinking in surprise Eiji straightened up. "Who? You mean Tezuka?"

Fuji wanted to reply, but started coughing all of a sudden. Eiji was by his side in split second, but couldn't do anymore than rub a soothing hand over Fuji's shuddering back. Whatever colour had returned to his friend's face before was completely gone when the fit abated.

There was no blood on Fuji's hands though, Eiji gratefully noted. But it didn't help that those delicate, white hands felt cold and trembled.

"Do you want me to fetch Oishi?" Eiji asked, watching Fuji worriedly. The other boy wordlessly shook his head, still gasping for breath. Slowly he begun straightening up and Eiji wondered whether or not he should run and get Oishi anyways.

"It's …" Fuji eventually ground out, "… I'm okay. … Don't worry so much."

Eiji only leaned back with a sigh. "If you say so, nya. If you say so. But promise me to get some rest soon!"

* * *

Tezuka's silver chain watch read 1.30.

The fact that he was able of deciphering the time shared a cause with his incapability to sleep – mainly the noise (and light effects) stemming from the apartment over his. Meaning, the party upstairs still continued.

He'd joined them at first, elated at having landed them a job in the stage production and his meeting with Fuji, but had begun to tire after some time. Oshitari had brought Gakuto along; Choutarou's dark-haired friend had shown up later on, too and Jirou had long since returned to Hypnos' realm.

… right now he was actually envying the narcoleptic.

Well, he could do something better with his time then just lying around. Maybe he'd just take a walk to clear his head.

Barely ten minutes later found Tezuka out on the streets; his late-night promenade cut short by another sleepless figure out on a softly lit balcony, looking wistfully up at the sky. There was no mistaking that graceful figure. Or that silky hair fluttering playfully in the soft breeze.

Tezuka bit his lip. The apollonian part of his mind urged him to ignore the scene, walk for half an hour and return home to sleep.

But…

Maybe he'd be behave like a foolish lover in one of Shakespeare's plays for once and brave the climb up to that balcony. Although he'd have to replace the romantic hedge with a quite more practical (and safer) fire ladder.

"What are you doing here?" Fuji asked, looking stunningly taken aback at Tezuka's sudden presence on the roof of the elephant. Overhead, the stars were twinkling brightly and Tezuka felt unusually carefree and – dare he say it – happy.

"I couldn't sleep." He replied, looking stoically unmoved; 'and I kept thinking about you' he mentally added but refrained from speaking, because he didn't want to seem overeager.

Fuji laughed slightly, not as high pitched or sensuous as earlier that day, but a real laugh. "I couldn't sleep either – I'm often going here when I can't sleep. You can actually see some stars."

He pointed upwards and Tezuka automatically turned to look into the direction. And true to his words, he could make out some sparkling lights amid the black sky. Though they were few – there was too much light in Paris nowadays; but London had the same problem.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?"

When Tezuka failed to respond, Fuji turned to him, smile appearing somewhat sadder. "Ah, I guess they aren't as impressive from here as when viewed from somewhere else."

A giggle and then he looked skyward again. "I've never been out of the city, so I wouldn't know."

Tezuka recalled Fuji's words earlier that evening and a spark of his desire to take that beautiful human being bathed in moonlight in front of him from all this decadency was rekindled. Still, he knew it was impossible. Understood far too well he wasn't even supposed to be here, and yet …

His heart told him he was doing the right thing.

"If I may ask…" Fuji set out again after a short moment of silence, "How did you get here? Pardon me if I'm wrong, but you don't seem the type to come to the Moulin Rouge."

He had to admire the boy's perceptiveness.

"Coincidence, I suppose." And then added with a slight smile. "It happened sort of the same way as I got hired to write that play."

"Did you ever write one before?" Fuji asked curiously.

Tezuka swallowed before replying. "Well, back in school. But don't worry, I'll give my best."

"Thank you for that." Fuji smiled. "But please don't make it all sad and melancholic like it's been fashionable lately. I'd like something that'll make the audience enjoy it, no matter if it ends up being a tragedy. You know, something like the Bohème."

Tezuka stepped up behind Fuji, looking out over the brightly lit Parisian night sky. There were so many lights still on; flickering golden stars of petroleum and electricity replacing the stars above.

"That is…"

Tezuka forgot the rest of his sentence. Fuji had just chosen this moment to look over his shoulder and they were so close he could feel a few strands of Fuji's hair tickle his cheek as the night wind played with them.

Blue eyes blinked up at his; almost insecure, and with a myriad of lights reflected in those wide, dark pupils. Tezuka's breath hitched; skin touched skin and even if his mind was screaming – there was an unfamiliar, wonderful warm sensation spreading through his body, a sense of intoxication blanketing all those warning signs.

And with a smile Tezuka leaned forward and closed the last of the remaining distance.

At first Fuji remained motionless; the kiss but a simple press of lips against lips. But then, almost tentatively, he opened his mouth, allowing Tezuka access. One pale hand reached up, burying itself in Tezuka's already slightly messy hair; enjoying the texture underneath his fingertips.

Tezuka wrapped his arms around Fuji's slim waist, pulling the smaller man firmly against his chest until there was no space left between them; until he could feel the warmth of the frail body through several layers of clothing. And unlike earlier, when Fuji had danced far too close, Tezuka didn't even feel remotely uncomfortable.

That small body seemed to fit perfectly against his, and the peaceful sensation spreading through his mind only proved his earlier words – love is not about a gender; but about a person. And Fuji – so beautiful and sharp-minded - was all and more than he could ever ask for.

Eventually they had to break the kiss for air, but Fuji didn't step away. He remained leaning against Tezuka's chest, listening absentmindedly to that steady heart beat.

"… I apologize." Tezuka said rather formally, even if he had yet to remove his arms. He knew he was breaking every kind of social rule ever established; yet this felt right.

"You don't need to. I …" Fuji didn't complete the sentence and there was no need to. He didn't dare looking up, because he knew what he's see in those hazel brown eyes; and it would make him happy – but …

Tezuka nodded, feeling uncharacteristically bitter. "It was a bad idea."

"Yes." Fuji quickly agreed.

Still, they didn't step away from each other. Tezuka's arms remained firmly in place and Fuji made no move to disentangle himself. There was Atobe, there were all his obligations, there was society – and yet he couldn't help but wonder if they might not just be wrong. All of them.

Because if there was anything right in this world, Fuji felt, it had to be resting in those arms.

With a sigh, Tezuka set out again. "We shouldn't…"

"But?" Fuji asked, sounding almost hopeful. He shouldn't hope for this, shouldn't encourage this, because this was doomed. Tezuka was not the Duke; without the Duke there'd be no musical, and without a musical he was as good as dead.

"But…" Tezuka bit his lip, praying he was making the right decision in speaking his mind. "We can try. Even if it's a bad idea. But, who knows, maybe we're wrong …"

Fuji smiled warmly at Tezuka's suggestion. Neither of them was naïve enough to write of those feelings to a fluke, and here they were, hanging onto that excuse.

"Perhaps." Fuji replied, looking far happier than before. "Only time will tell."

Tezuka half-smiled. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

And leaned down to steal one last kiss before leaving.

* * *

Thank you for reading and please feel free to tell me if you liked it or not.


	3. Thursday Night At the Gothic Tower:

**Moulin Rouge**

* * *

First things first: Pot does not belong to me

This fic was originally written for cactuscontinuum on lj (dedicated to decollement), but I wanted to share it with the rest of the world, too. Though, if you do have lj, head over to cactuscontinuum - there are loads of brilliant TezuFuji fics out there.

**Warnings: **Uhm, this is eventually going to be deathfic. But for now we only have Atobe using pluralis majestatis instead of Ore-sama, a mix of adress forms, an extremely long chapter and odd formating in the middle. Still, I hope you enjoy.

**Thank you very much** everybody who reviewed. Makes me happy to see people are actually enjoying reading this. And I hope I'll fulfill all expectations.

* * *

**III**

No matter how fiercely Tezuka tried to deny the blossoming feelings in his chest, he was inevitably gravitating to Fuji's side in the next few days. He found himself at the Moulin Rouge early in the morning, watching the actors practice while simultaneously working further on the script.

And in the break Fuji would drift over; even more beautiful in ordinary clothing than in those glittering stage outfits, ask him what he thought about this or that scene, share his own impressions and – by chance – brush a hand against his. Or lean forward to read the latest sentence written while his soft hair tickled Tezuka's cheek and flash an impish smile when Tezuka cleared his throat.

But then Tezuka would interrupt practice, climb onto the stage to adjust postures. If Momoshirou saw his hand linger a little too long on Fuji's waist or Oshitari had a problem with Tezuka spontaneously taking his place in a dialogue to "get the point across" – no complaint was ever voiced.

There was a new enthusiasm in Fuji's act, a vibrancy to his gestures that Momoshirou had never seen before. Eiji had once, after almost an entire bottle of good red wine, told him that Fuji actually loved this job. Not quite the part of getting men worked up – but the acting.

"_I guess it's the only way he can do what he does."_ Eiji had said, drunk and solemn, _"Act all the way … even behind closed doors."_

That day Momoshirou, not for the first time, had wished he could change the Moulin Rouge's shady image. Move away from being a high-scale brothel to being an honest theatre. Not for his own sake – but for people like Fuji, Eiji and all those others.

Maybe this time around it would work out, Momoshirou hoped, watching Fuji engage in a heated discussion with Tezuka – who'd taken Oshitari's place for the scene – on stage. The sitar player was trying to convince the concubine that he loved her for more than her beauty; and Tezuka was being quite passionate in delivering his lines.

And the Duke was watching.

As always, if time allowed it and he had no prior engagements, Atobe Keigo made time to come by and watch the rehearsals – or, to be more precise, to watch Fuji. If he was lucky he managed to exchange a couple of words with the actor, or was graced with one of these sweet, sweet smiles; yet regrettably Fuji always was extremely busy.

If not on stage with Oshitari or listening to Momoshirou's directions, then he'd be deep in conversation with Tezuka or fooling around with Eiji – barely a minute to spare for Atobe. Not even for dinner.

* * *

"You're not giving everything at practice, I noticed." Tezuka said one evening when Fuji was lounging on his bed instead of accompanying Atobe to dinner – again.

"I'm not?" Fuji tilted his head, "Nobody said so yet. Momo is rather taken, if I may say so. And I didn't hear Oshitari complain either."

Shaking his head, Tezuka clarified. "I don't think anyone of them noticed. Could have, actually."

"How so? At least Shishido would have told me if my acting was sub-standard. He isn't as nice about those things as Eiji or Gakuto are."

"Your acting hasn't changed." Tezuka replied without looking up from his notes, fingers hovering motionlessly over the typewriter, "It's only I feel you can do far better. There is quite a difference between your performance at rehearsals and our private practice sessions already, but I doubt that's all there is to it."

"Touché." Fuji smiled, hugging one off-white pillow to his chest. Tezuka didn't continue, but restarted typing – those scenes, no matter how easily thought up, had to be written down. He'd been surprised when Momoshirou had announced he'd already decided on a date for the premier – and that at a time when the script hadn't even been completed.

"But it's not as if I did it on purpose." Fuji added after a while, "It's … I don't know. I suppose I always watch the audience's reaction; or how my co-actors act and adapt to them."

"So you're not acting for yourself." Tezuka concluded.

"Maybe you're right."

"Maybe." A short silence and even Tezuka's finger stopped. He turned around to look at Fuji.

"But I hope someday I'll get to see that, too."

* * *

Atobe Keigo on the other hand wasn't just sitting around either.

Barely a day passed now without him bringing flowers, a present or any other token of affection for Fuji. He didn't mind the money spent, as long as for those precious moments that the rose bouquet passed from his hands into Fuji's smaller ones, the actor stopped caring for the world around them. And that dazzling smile was meant for Atobe alone.

He couldn't help the shiver that went through him when their fingertips touched. Couldn't help but wish for those minutes to last, even when Fuji had already returned to his fellow actors and when Eiji wrapped his arms around his shoulders, Atobe felt a darker sentiment blossoming in his chest.

He wanted Fuji.

And if he asked directly, Fuji could not deny him.

But Atobe didn't want Fuji to be his companion only for the sake of money and obligations. He did not want to be another man on that list of well-paying customers that would be happy to leave the Moulin Rouge a high-class brothel.

What Atobe hoped for was for Fuji to choose him; select him for being who he was – not for his fortune, his social status or whatever. If that required buying presents, indulging strange whims or even taking that writer along on small excursions – Atobe didn't mind.

Not even, when they were seated on a picnic blanket with Fuji and Tezuka lost in conversation, rendering him an outsider.

* * *

"You should watch out." Oshitari one day told Tezuka as they were taking a break backstage. "That Atobe doesn't look as if he'd take well to being fooled with."

Tezuka coolly raised an eyebrow and Oshitari continued.

"You and Fuji – it's nice to see you actually smile for once, but I hope you know that the moment our dear Narcissus finds out there'll be hell to pay."

After a moment of silence Tezuka only replied: "I won't let my guard down."

* * *

"Atobe-sama!" Fuji exclaimed surprised, turning his back to Tezuka.

The Duke headed straight for the actor, not even glancing at all the other persons present. Tezuka frowned at the interruption, but remained silent.

"Mon chéri, you look lovely as always." Atobe stated, taking one small hand and pressing a shallow kiss on its back, "We have something special for you today."

Tezuka's frown darkened.

"Kabaji!"

Without saying a word Atobe's loyal bodyguard stepped forward, proffering a small box decorated by a violet, satin ribbon. It looked high-quality and within seconds all eyes had come to focus on Atobe and Fuji.

"For me?" Fuji questioned, sounding breathless. "But Atobe-sama, I really can not…"

Atobe shook his head. "If you want to make us happy, accept this humble gift."

"I honestly can't …"

"We saw it, thought of you and bought it. If you are to refuse it we fear it has been bought in vain."

Fuji's shoulders slumped a little, but his smile widened. "You leave me no choice…"

The curiosity when Fuji pulled off the ribbon and opened the box, Tezuka noted with disdain, wasn't faked. While he knew Fuji was not one to be tempted by material things, the boy however liked to receive presents. And Atobe practically showered him with those – while Tezuka couldn't even afford to take him out for dinner.

Maybe he should write his parents and ask them for money; yet he told himself it was not a good idea to enter this competition with Atobe. Fuji was not so shallow…

"… the shop owner told us the silk has been imported from China." Atobe said; feeling strangely pleased at the sight of Fuji's blue eyes wide open. Small white hands touched the silk scarf as if handling antique valuables; fascinated by the smooth sensation.

Atobe smiled. "We have come to notice you have been coughing lately and since winter is coming we thought you might benefit from this."

Fuji in return gave Atobe the most brilliant, dazzling smile the Duke had ever seen.

Neither heard Oishi sigh in the background.

"Would you perhaps join us for dinner tonight?" Atobe asked the moment Fuji stepped off the stage.

Blue eyes blinked, and within those few seconds Fuji hesitated, Tezuka appeared at his side. The playwright's expression was stoic as always and Atobe once again wondered just why Fuji got along so well with that man.

Sensing the presence beside him Fuji flashed the Duke a rather weak smile. "I'm afraid I'll have to decline your invitation. Monsieur Tezuka requested my assistance for working out some glitches in the script tonight."

* * *

"We understand it's important for the main actor to be familiar with the playwright." Atobe was saying, fixing Momoshirou with a level glare over his desk in the Gothic Tower. "However we wonder whether the financier has no likewise right…"

Momoshirou swallowed dryly. He'd been afraid of that confrontation; yet knew it had been coming.

"Well, you see, the premier is drawing near so everybody is really upset and nervous and …"

"We are already aware of that." Atobe sharply interrupted him, "Thus we extended dinner invitations at a time when rehearsals had already finished."

Fuji had rejected that man one time too many. And while Momoshirou could understand only too well why Fuji had done so, he was afraid there was little he could do now to mitigate the affair.

He let the silence grow for a minute, before clearing his throat. "Dear Duke, did you perhaps consider… I'm almost embarrassed to say it, but you see … one doesn't easily notice, but Fujiko-chan is rather shy in certain aspects. Maybe the prospect of dining with your Greatness on such short term notice frightened him."

An eyebrow shot up, but Momoshirou saw the wheels begin turning in Atobe's head and almost sighed with relief. Obviously Atobe had forgotten to consider the aspect of their different social statuses and picked up rather well on Momoshirou's implication that Fuji might feel uncomfortable moving in upper-class circles. (which would however be a blatant lie, Momoshirou knew all too well)

"I could talk to him, if you'd like me to." Momoshirou offered helpfully.

Atobe however shook his head. "No, no." he muttered, "We wouldn't want him to feel uncomfortable – maybe a private dinner would be preferable?"

"Just wonderful!" Momoshirou exclaimed, "Splendid!"

And then he leaned forward, fixing Atobe with one intense look. "But you'll have to give Fujiko-chan time to prepare. He's going to faint from excitement otherwise."

"Oh?"

"He secretly adores you." Momoshirou whispered, as if sharing a juicy secret, "Blushes and stutters when your name is mentioned – like a young girl in love for the very first time."

Fuji would forgive him, he hoped. Tezuka certainly would not.

"I'm afraid that's also why he hasn't been speaking to you a lot – and dragged Tezuka along to your outings. He's just afraid of being alone with you, afraid of embarrassing himself in front of you."

Atobe looked vaguely pleased, so Momoshirou decided to go all out. "Fujiko-chan is a brilliant actor on stage, but always so afraid of blunders behind the scenes. He would never forgive himself if he did anything unsuitable in your company."

"He'd never dare to look you in the eye again." Momoshirou added and – for emphasis – snatched a white tablecloth and hid his face behind it.

For a split second Atobe appeared torn between disgust and amusement at the gesture, but then the Duke settled for smug. "So you're saying Fujiko-chan is awed by our prowess."

"Very much so." Momoshirou coyly replied, "You'll have to approach him carefully or he'll run away."

Fluttering his lashes, he added: "You just have to imagine you're seducing a young maiden."

A spark of unholy interest lit up in those cool, unfathomable eyes and Momoshirou had to fight back a shudder. He didn't dare think upon what he was awakening, for Atobe appeared not only appeased, but highly intrigued.

"Like one of those young girls that have never been with a man before?" the Duke asked, for a moment forgetting all about Momoshirou prancing around him with a lacy tablecloth wrapped around his head.

"Indeed." Momoshirou answered huskily, daring himself to lean close enough that the Duke could feel his breath on his cheek. "Being together with you will be a first time for Fujiko-chan."

Atobe's lips involuntarily twitched upwards.

"We shall dine with him on Thursday night. In the Gothic Tower."

* * *

"No! No! Tezuka!" Fuji burst into incredulous laughter, dancing teasingly out of Tezuka's reach. Rehearsals had been paused while Shishido and Inui were messing around with the stage props, giving the actors some time to pass as they pleased.

And indeed, Gakuto and Oshitari had been quick to disappear, Jirou had grabbed one of the pillows that made up the Maharajah's chambers and still rested there, deep in slumber and Kaidou had procured a book and started reading.

The lead actor and the writer meanwhile had retreated to the first-floor balcony, lost in some private banter and didn't hear the main doors open beneath them.

Oishi was the first one to emerge from backstage when the doors banged shut. Silence fell as the golden embroideries on Atobe's navy winter coat glittered in the dim lightening. The Duke appeared supremely confident, a self-satisfied smile on his handsome face – and some of the dancers couldn't help but feel faint at the sight.

Oishi bit his lip, while Atobe passed his coat to the ever-silent Kabaji with a flourish; dimly wondering who was going to handle this situation. From the corner of his eye he caught Tezuka and Fuji upstairs, with Fuji's back against one of the wooden support beams, face tilted up to glance at Tezuka, who stood far too close.

If Atobe was to turn around …

Momoshirou chose just that moment to appear. The director was still in his red, over-decorated Maharajah outfit, and hurried towards Atobe with exaggerated enthusiastic movements.

"Dear Duke! What an honour to have you grace us with your presence today!"

The director's smile was dazzlingly wide, but his eyes had already caught sight of his main actor upstairs. He could only pray Atobe was willing to play the charade for the sake of appearances in front of the other actors.

… there was no need for anybody else to know what would happen had already been decided. That freedom of choice within these walls had become a mere illusion.

"Bonjour." Atobe greeted as upstairs Tezuka leaned forward and closed the last of the remaining distance.

"We came to see how rehearsals are progressing." The Duke smugly proclaimed and searchingly glanced over the present actors. There was no telling by his expression, but today he was truly feeling good – he would extend his invitation and then he only had to wait for Thursday night to come. Fuji would finally be his.

Tezuka's kisses were like water, Fuji mused as his arms slid around Tezuka's neck. They could be soft and soothing, deep and intriguing, stormy and passionate and a myriad of other things. With weakening knees he could only hold onto the taller man, wondering if one day he was going to drown in these wonderful kisses.

"Rehearsals are going wonderful." Momoshirou replied brightly, and then suddenly changed his demeanour completely. His dark voice boomed through the room, and Gakuto curiously peeked out. Caught sight of Momoshirou proclaiming on stage. Atobe in the audience. And Tezuka and Fuji lip-locked up on the balcony.

"_The Maharajah is already becoming very impatient." _

He never wanted to let go, Tezuka thought as small hands mussed up his hair. Maybe he'd always inwardly rolled his eyes when friends had started raving on the wonders of love; but right now he begun to understand. Feeling this warm body pressed up against his, those pliant lips responding, he couldn't help but wish this moment would never end.

"We're currently taking a break while our master technicians fix up some things." Momoshirou, back to being the director, stated in good-humour; as Gakuto disappeared backstage again, dashing upstairs with Oshitari in tow.

Atobe smiled. "So maybe the lead actor would have some minutes to spare for us?"

"Fuji! Fuji!"

Fuji heard somebody urgently hiss his name and rather reluctantly separated his lips from Tezuka's. The writer turned to look into the direction of the caller, his expression stoic even if his face was flushed.

"Atobe's here!" Gakuto hissed.

Not daring to look up in fear of giving the couple away Momoshirou smiled. "But of course."

Tezuka's eyes flew open.

"Fujiko-chan! Stop hiding!" Momoshirou called, praying they had caught themselves up there and Atobe turned around to glance upwards.

Oshitari dove for Tezuka and in a mad tumble, three men went down.

Atobe only saw Fuji smiling at him from the first floor balcony, with his face flushed from nervous excitement. One white hand was holding onto a support beam and his eyes were sparkling.

"Come down and join us!" Momoshirou called, outwardly cheerful but Fuji could easily see through this, "The Duke would like to speak with you."

"Oh my." Fuji put a hand in front of his mouth to signify his astonishment, "With me? I shall be with you at once!"

Tezuka, held down in his uncomfortable position by Oshitari's body on top of him, frowned at hearing Fuji's sweet tone. And his frown deepened further when Fuji turned and walked away without sparing him even one more glance.

As if Atobe's sudden presence had completely banished him from Fuji's mind.

It was all Atobe could do to stop himself from reaching out and touching that smooth skin. As always, up close Fuji looked even more stunning and today his beauty was emphasized by a slight flush spread over his cheeks.

"Atobe-sama." Fuji said, bowing and Atobe automatically shut out the world around him. He didn't notice the insistent look Momoshirou directed at Fuji.

Instead he took hold of one small hand, relishing in feeling a fast pulse under white skin and smiled his best smile – the one that had already charmed half of the Parisian ladies off their feet.

"Mon chéri." Atobe said, not caring about their audience, "We were wondering if you would deign to dine with us on Thursday night."

As etiquette demanded he tore his eyes away from Fuji's face for the moment, and let his gaze slide over the fragile body meanwhile. For a boy, Fuji's waist was quite small, thus he could easily pass for a woman and those long dresses only emphasized this.

Fuji's eyes met Momoshirou's. He didn't dare to glance up, to where Tezuka might be watching and waiting.

"I told you to be careful." Oshitari hissed at Tezuka, while the writer rubbed at his left elbow, brows ceased in discomfort. He couldn't help but feel confused at the fact that Fuji had just walked off – he understood the confusion, but one glance shouldn't have been too much to ask, should it?

"Really, Tezuka, I understand what you're feeling, but the Duke's kind of a big fish out there." Oshitari continued. "You don't want to mess with somebody like that."

Tezuka pressed his lips together. Back at home he'd also been called a person not to mess with. It wasn't as if he didn't know how to help himself. He'd dealt with his share of over-confident aggressors quite successfully – and even if those people here in Paris didn't know, Atobe wasn't that far out of his league as everybody automatically assumed.

"Nobody wants anything bad, Tezuka." Gakuto added from where he was kneeling between the benches, "It's just you should watch out. There are a lot of stage hands around and who knows what kind of rumours those gossiping girls could spawn – nobody of us wants to see you or Fuji get into trouble because of that."

With a pout Gakuto added. "You know, everyone here is really looking forward to doing this musical. So if Atobe was to back out, that'd be …"

Tezuka only nodded in silence. He understood what Gakuto was saying. But he couldn't help but wonder if it was the right thing to do. If Fuji's obligation to the crew was enough of an argument to forsake his personal happiness.

"I should be honoured." Fuji replied, and his voice trembled slightly as Atobe tightened his grip.

Momoshirou bit his lip and Oishi wearily dared to glance upwards to Tezuka. The writer's face seemed expressionless, but Oishi had an inkling of what had to be brewing beneath the surface. If it were Eiji standing in Fuji's place now …

"Then come to the Gothic Tower on Thursday night." Atobe stated; pleased at how the pulse underneath his fingers jumped. "It shall be just the two of us."

Fuji fought to keep his smile on, yet something deep within him was trembling. He understood his obligation far too well, knew exactly what he had to do – and yet he couldn't silence the little voice in the back of his voice that kept wondering whether he wasn't betraying all of them by playing this charade.

"I shall do so." He replied, his voice a mere whisper that carried through the silent room. Atobe smiled in satisfaction – perchance the Moulin Rouge's director had not been lying when he'd told Atobe that this was going to be a first time for Fuji.

With one last bow, Atobe reluctantly let go of that warm hand. "We shall be looking forward to Thursday night." And turned to go with a flourish – but not without casting a smirk up to where Tezuka was watching with an unreadable expression on his face.

* * *

"Are you really going to meet Atobe?" Tezuka asked Wednesday evening.

Fuji had come with him to his apartment after the rehearsals had finished for today and since the gang upstairs had gone out, the room felt unusually quite. With half a sigh Tezuka sat down on the edge of his bed and springs squeaked.

Fuji meanwhile drifted over to the window, thoughtfully starring out into the slight drizzle of rain against the onset of darkness.

"I suppose so." The boy replied after a moment.

Tezuka watched the small form and couldn't help but think that Fortuna was being unfair.

"But you turned down all his previous invitations." He stated and saw a slight frown reflected on the window pane.

"Yes. I could, back then. They were less formal and spontaneous." Fuji replied, sounding exhausted, "Not like today."

"You can still tell Atobe you're not feeling well on Thursday."

"Nee, Tezuka." Fuji suddenly turned away from the window and faced Tezuka with a sad smile, "I might be an actor but I don't like lying. And I thought you didn't either."

Tezuka held the blue gaze for a moment before letting his head drop. Fuji was right. They'd already been making up far too many white lies recently and at times he felt as if he didn't recognize himself anymore. Yet just seeing Fuji's smile made every lie told worthwhile.

"And well…" Fuji continued, stifling a cough, "The Duke is the very person financing this musical. And somehow it doesn't feel right to treat the person making your dream possible that badly."

While Tezuka could understand the sentiment; he paled at the implications. The affectionate tone Fuji had used …

"Fuji." He said and the flat tone made Fuji's eyes widen, "Do you mean… you won't turn him down?"

Recognizing the spark lightening up those dark eyes far too well, Fuji bit his lip. He could always lie, but Tezuka would see through him.

"I won't." he simply replied, dimly wondering how he could be so calm.

Tezuka swallowed dryly. To assuage his nervousness he stood up.

"And if Atobe … you know, wants more?"

Fuji closed his eyes resignedly. "I won't deny him either."

"Fuji!"

Three loud steps, then Tezuka was in front of the young actor and reached out to grasp him by the shoulders. Fuji's eyes however remained closed and his voice even.

"Tezuka. You know this is necessary. This is my job, my obligation…"

"There's no obligation forcing you to share a bed with that man!" Tezuka exclaimed, his fingers tightening almost painfully around Fuji's upper arms.

Blue eyes snapped open. "But to tell him more lies?" he questioned, not caring if an ounce of his true emotions leaked through. He didn't want to do this any more than Tezuka wanted him to, but it wasn't as if he had a choice.

Tezuka ought to understand.

"No, Tezuka, no." Fuji shook his head and tried to step back, out of Tezuka's hold, but his back only connected with cold mortar. "I may not hold any feelings for the Duke, but the fact alone that he is the man making my dream possible makes him deserving of special treatment. I'm not going to deny him any longer."

Silence descended. Tension hung thick in the air; Fuji felt as if he was suffocating with Tezuka's eyes boring deep into his own. All he could do was cling onto his resolution, regardless of how badly he just wanted to fall into Tezuka's arms.

Fall into his arms and stay there. All day tomorrow. And tomorrow night, too. With a wistful smile Fuji whispered: "Why couldn't you have been the Duke?"

But in front of him Tezuka's eyes turned cold. All warmth vanished and Tezuka stepped back, detaching his hands from Fuji's body.

"Just do whatever you want."

* * *

"What shall I wear tonight?" Fuji asked cheerfully, looking around in question. Eiji still had a frown on his face, but Gakuto had already decided that the least he could do was help with picking out a dress. Even if Oshitari was waiting for him.

Fuji meanwhile picked up one long black dress. "How about that one?"

"Isn't that the one with the slit that almost goes up to your thigh?" Gakuto asked; one eyebrow raised. "It surely suits you."

Eiji on the other hand frowned. "Nya, I don't know. Didn't Momo say you should go for innocent?"

"I guess that means the red dress is also out of question then." Fuji nodded in contemplation.

"You could go for the college girl look." Gakuto suggested. His own closet had a wide variety of such garments and he wouldn't mind borrowing one set to Fuji.

"We don't know if that would suit his majesty's tastes." Eiji replied, "Though considering the length of those skirts…"

"I was only saying." Gakuto shot back sullenly, "Do you have any better suggestions?"

"Fujiko should wear something long with a high neckline, nya. Or pants."

Fuji turned a soothing smile to his worried friend. "Eiji. You know it's not the first time I'm doing this. And we depend on Atobe."

"But Tezuka…"

"Tezuka is Tezuka and Atobe is Atobe. I have to be fair to both of them."

Because, Fuji told himself, even if he couldn't deny anymore that the man he loved was Tezuka, Atobe's feelings were probably just as honest. And the man was making a considerable effort as well, so lying to him any further wouldn't only be cruel, but also go against any ideas of right and wrong Fuji held.

He'd have to give Atobe this chance at least.

"Why don't you wear white?" Eiji suggested after a few seconds.

* * *

Tezuka had woken up to a steady drumming of rain against the window. Skies outside were grey and his head had felt stuffed, tired, even if his watch read a time that was closer to midday than morning.

Dimly he had recalled his conversation with Fuji last night, but the turmoil bubbling in the depth of his heart had him trying to bury the memories instead. He didn't like this sense of anxiety disturbing his peace of mind; how he just couldn't seem concentrate.

How every little thing in this room reminded him of Fuji.

After choking down a tasteless lunch Tezuka found he couldn't stay in his apartment any longer. The silence only invited memories of things he didn't want to recall – he hadn't meant what he'd said to Fuji. But he'd been angry.

The walk in the rain didn't do anything to make his mind stop circling around the same subject. Instead Tezuka found himself faced with the realities of Montmartre once again – bohemian spirit and naïve idealism contrasted with stark materialism.

Fuji and he were no exceptions from the rules of society. Things had to be done to live, to survive – to make dreams possible even. Who was he to challenge Fuji's resolve?

He should not have been angry. He shouldn't have blamed Fuji for agreeing to meet with Atobe. He should have…

A sigh. Tezuka could only admit that this must be a lot of harder on Fuji than it was on him actually – it was just that he'd been too blinded by his feelings to see. And now all he could do was apologize and hope Fuji would forgive him.

Tezuka bit his lip. Looked at the muddy ground.

He had to talk to Fuji.

* * *

Everybody looked up as the doors slammed open.

Out of breath and with his hair in disorder, Tezuka stalked into the showroom. His eyes looked from the left to the right, wandering over the stage hands and actors loitering around, but didn't stay on anybody for more than a split second.

There was Oishi sitting in one of the front seats, a book opened on his lap; Choutarou sitting together with Shishido behind the piano and Jirou dozing away on a settee. Eiji sitting comfortably on an armchair and metallic noises from off-stage gave away Inui's location.

Gakuto and Eiji sitting together on the edge of the stage, dangling their legs in a rare display of peace between them; but Tezuka's eyes did not find the person he was looking for.

"Where is Fuji?" he eventually asked.

Oishi's shoulder slumped; he could hear somebody sighing, but it was Oshitari, who emerged from backstage, still dressed as the sitar player, to answer Tezuka's question.

"At the Gothic Tower." The dark-haired man replied evenly, eyes boring into Tezuka's. "To have diner with Atobe."

And somehow it sounded like a curse.

"Did you come to apologize?" the man continued, unmindful of the shadow on Tezuka's face. "Did you say something to Fuji you didn't mean? And wanted to rectify things now, as you yourself realize you don't understand your reason?"

Oshitari drew closer, a foreboding expression on his features.

"You're jealous." he whispered into Tezuka's ear.

Drawing a deep breath, Fuji lifted his head as the polished, wooden double doors were opened for him.

"Don't be ridiculous." Tezuka snorted.

Directly behind the door, within the luxuriously decorated, softly lit chamber, Atobe stood clad in his best suit.

Oshitari smiled, tilting his head and Tezuka didn't miss the way his eyes stayed over to the small red head, sitting on the side and chatting with a couple of other dancers.

"You look beautiful." Atobe said, and meant his words. Bowing deeply, he reached for Fuji's hand and placed a kiss upon it.

Oshitari turned back to the writer. "You're in love."

With only a small word of thanks Fuji let himself be guided to the long table; where upon fancy silverware the most delicious meal was laid out. This was beyond anything he had dreamed of in his childhood, but right now he couldn't even rejoice.

"In love?" Tezuka asked, sceptically. Infatuation, maybe. But love?

Because in his mind, Fuji kept seeing Tezuka's cold, stony face.

"Yes, in love." Oshitari grinned. And behind him Choutarou started playing the piano.

There was nothing notable about the soup and the main course tasted like ashes in Fuji's mouth. And Atobe's eyes resting expectantly upon him send cold shivers down his spine.

Tezuka crossed his arms, seeing that Oshitari hadn't gotten to his point yet. The giggling dancers sitting along the stage were slowly getting on his nerves and he longed for the quiet of his apartment.

"I have something else for you." Atobe said, after the used tableware had been carried away.

"And because you're in love…"

Fuji's eyes widened.

"…you're jealous."

Atobe came closer, bearing on his hands the last silver platter that had not been uncovered yet. He should be happy, he knew, but he only felt scared. The cover was whisked away suddenly and the brightly, sparkling diamond necklace underneath made Fuji's heart stop.

"I'm not."

"Atobe-sama…" Fuji gasped.

"Oh, you are." Oshitari replied, smirking, "Because right now…" leaning closer to Tezuka's ear and lowering his voice "Sweet, beautiful Fuji is dining with Atobe."

Those diamonds had to be worth a fortune.

"And who knows…"

"I can't accept this."

"… what might happen."

"You'd hurt our feelings if you were to reject this petite token of affection."

"Just think about it."

"Let us see you wear those."

"Atobe's hands touching him..."

Fuji held his breath. Finger, as cold as the precious stones, were ghosting across his neck. The white skin felt incredible smooth underneath Atobe's hands as he carefully drew the ends of the collier together.

"Atobe's lips upon his skin…"

Spellbound, the Duke leaned down. The smell of Fuji's hair was mesmerizing and the white, small neck looked so tempting; his lips drew closer until Fuji felt cold breath on his shoulder.

"Atobe-sama!"

A shrill cord rang through the hall. "Enough!"

Oshitari only smirked.

"Pardon us." Atobe grinned and his lips descended.

Tezuka couldn't hear anymore, couldn't stop the images from assaulting his mind and Oshitari's words didn't help. This atmosphere of decadence, sexual tension and dim lightening – he couldn't stand it anymore.

Fuji gasped, tensing up as Atobe's lips caressed his neck; frozen in place even as a warm tongue traced his skin. Then teeth replaced lips, nibbling and biting and …

Tezuka whirled around, heedlessly storming out of the Moulin Rouge, leaving the double doors swinging in his wake. Cold rain met him outside, but he didn't care; couldn't chase away the images, couldn't free his mind – so he ran.

Fuji abruptly stood, moving out of Atobe's reach. Blue eyes, wide with well-disguised fear, stared at the smirking Duke. He couldn't help himself, but right now he didn't want to be touched by Atobe. Even if it was his job; even if it was supposed to be just another role to play …

"Did we surprise you?" Atobe asked, closing in and Fuji could smell the wine on his breath. One hand reached out and grasped his upper arm in a painfully tight grip; the other tried to grab his chin, but Fuji twisted away.

"Atobe…" he set out seriously. Somehow he had to tell Atobe to back off, preferably before either of them lost their temper. The consequences would be harsh, Fuji understood pretty well that the price for making Atobe back off now would be painful to pay, but he couldn't pull off the act tonight.

His heart felt like breaking and he couldn't get Tezuka's cold expression out of his mind.

"I…"

"Don't be afraid." Atobe whispered, leaning forward to brush their lips together. "We won't…"

Fuji's mind went blank. Those dry lips against his and something in his chest started screaming; within a split second he forgot all about who that man was and why – he only knew that he _did not want to_.

"No!" Fuji abruptly turned away, stumbling backwards to escape Atobe's fierce grip. The Duke's hand slipped off his arm, but caught the fabric of the dress. A loud ripping noise echoed through the vast dark chamber, Fuji felt something tear and glanced up anxiously.

Atobe's chest was heaving. The man had a half-obsessed gleam in his eyes; starring at Fuji's now-bared right shoulder. Fuji's throat constricted with fear.

Suddenly Atobe advanced, one hand seizing Fuji's waist while the other went behind the actor's head; long fingers burying themselves in silky, honey-brown hair, painfully forcing Fuji to tilt his head backwards. He wanted to scream but couldn't, when lips violently smashed onto his own.

Alcohol-satiated breath hit his face, a tongue was ravishing his mouth, the grip the Duke had on his hair hurt and he _couldn't breathe_. Something snapped and Fuji started struggling with all of his strength, teeth automatically clamping down on that tongue.

Atobe howled, jerking his head away and Fuji tried to push him away, almost falling backwards in the process. Fabric tore as Atobe's hand on his waist tried to hold him in place, and Fuji only for a split second Fuji's wide eyes met Atobe's enraged ones.

Then something forcefully collided with his cheek, taking the small actor of his feet and throwing him onto the large divan. The world blurred, darkness on the corners of his vision for a split second, his heart beating like mad. Silk caressed his bare arms, and legs; dimly Fuji registered his throbbing cheek, but could only stare fearfully up at the Duke towering over him, a feral gleam in his eyes.

He never even saw the shadow rise behind Atobe.

A loud clang echoed through the chamber and slowly, almost gently, Atobe sank down. Fuji held his breath until the Duke's body hit the ground and remained there, unmoving. He couldn't tell whether he was dead or only unconscious, but he was definitely glad.

His fingers were trembling where they were clutching the silken blanket, because no matter how often he'd told himself that this was his job that he'd done this before, that Atobe really was no bad man – that wasn't Tezuka. And how easily Atobe had torn away his clothes, thrown him down and overpowered him, had scared him deeply.

Slowly he raised wide-open blue eyes to glance at his unlikely saviour. Not Tezuka – but he'd be a fool to expect Tezuka's help after what he'd said to him – but silent, ever-gentle Taka-san was looking down at him worriedly.

"Are you okay?"

Fuji breathed in deeply, trying to calm his frantically racing heart. To regain some strength in his legs so he could get up and leave. Instead receiving the desired oxygen however, his lungs constricted.

Before he knew it, coughs were wrecking his small frame, dry in the beginning, but the fit didn't abate and the much dreaded metallic taste rose in the back of Fuji's throat. He could only helplessly press his hands in front of his mouth and pray for everything to be over.

Darkness danced invitingly in front of his eyes, but Kawamura's large, warm hand rubbing soothingly over his back convinced Fuji not to give in. Instead, he slumped against the broad frame, trying his best to get back his breath and fight away the tears burning in the corners of his eyes.

Kawamura didn't ask a question, instead he only gently held him and Fuji felt eternally grateful for that steady, unassuming source of support. Taka-san, he unconsciously recalled, was perhaps the only man that ever held him without asking for more.

"We should leave." Kawamura gently said after a while. Fuji had stopped trembling, but Kawamura's heart ached when he noticed how the petite actor was stifling more coughs before nodding.

Carefully Fuji climbed to his feet, his knees still feeling unsteady and Kawamura wondered whether he shouldn't just carry Fuji back. But then again he had known Fuji long enough to understand that the boy had a certain degree of pride that wouldn't allow for any pampering.

He hoped it was enough to be the silent, helpful presence lingering at Fuji's side as they slowly climbed down the winding staircase. It was still raining outside, so Kawamura slipped of his coat and draped it over Fuji's small shoulders.

The white dress was ripped in so many places and Fuji accepted the coat with a small, warm smile and Kawamura felt his heart break.

Kawamura swallowed. Biting his lip he looked out into the darkness, before turning back to Fuji. Momoshirou would understand his decision.

"Go to him, Fuji." Kawamura said, passing the boy his umbrella, "Go to Tezuka."

* * *

A knock on the door made Tezuka look up from his sketches.

His chain watch confirmed that midnight was rapidly approaching and the hour thus too late for any decent visitor. Normally he'd already be getting ready for bed himself, but tonight had forced him to drown himself in work – to replace the other thing haunting his mind.

Not only the images. But also Fuji's sad, sad smile last night. He hadn't forgiven himself for being so cold, and even if Fuji refused him any further contact – he had to apologize.

With a sigh he pushed back his chair and went to open the door.

Blue eyes blinked up at him.

Brown hair was messed up, wet and sticking to pale skin. Underneath a too large, dark coat the white dress was ripped and torn and water dripped onto the wood below. The boy was shivering.

Tezuka's heart stopped.

"Tezuka…" Fuji whispered; a soft, tired smile on his face.

And then Tezuka snapped, reached out and pulled Fuji into his arms, not minding the soaked clothes of the actor or the coldness of his skin. Fuji was here and not with Atobe; here in Tezuka's arms and that was what mattered.

"Fuji…. Fuji…" Tezuka kept mumbling; his face buried in the crook of Fuji's neck, as they stumbled inside his apartment and he felt Fuji shudder from the warmth. Small hands reached around his neck, mussed up his still damp hair and clung to him with all their strength.

"Tez…" Fuji muttered, half a sob, and then coughs snatched his voice away. Tezuka held on tightly to the shuddering body, silently wishing he could do more – anything to help – even as his head spun with unanswered questions.

What was Fuji doing here? Wasn't he supposed to be with Atobe? And that torn dress – what did it mean? He dreaded the answer, yet his mind wouldn't stop connecting the implications.

"Fuji, I'm sorry." Tezuka said, as the coughs had stopped wrecking the small body in his arms. "What I said last night – I was angry. I had no right to … I'm sorry."

"It's okay." Fuji gasped; the aftertaste of metallic liquid in his mouth. "It's okay."

All he wanted was to forget; to sink into those arms and never leave them again.

"When Atobe…" he whispered, voice choked with emotions, "When he… I couldn't. I kept thinking about you and I … I couldn't."

Tezuka didn't even feel like rejoicing. Seeing Fuji broken like this, feeling tears soak through his violet cotton shirt, he couldn't help but wish things hadn't turned out like this.

"Don't cry." Was all Tezuka could say, stroking wet hair affectionately. "Everything will be alright."

"I love you."

_tbc _

Please drop me a line if there was anything you liked or disliked.


	4. The End is Near

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* * *

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Moulin Rouge

* * *

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Pairing**: TezuFuji (main), one-sided AtoFuji; other canon pairings

**Prompter**: **decollement**

**Summary**: Atobe acquires the deeds to the Moulin Rouge, Fuji is informed of his fatal illness and decides act.

**Warnings**: Loooong, possible ooc, pluralis majestatis instead of ore-sama; scenes play out different than in the movie

**AN**: I apologize for the late update and am eternally grateful to everybody who read (and left a comment). Thank you very much. bows

* * *

**Part IV**

Friday morning was grey and dreary and reminded Atobe that the year was approaching its end. Not that his aching head particularly minded the lingering darkness outside; just as the caress of cool silk had chased the weariness from his body after waking up.

Last night had not been supposed to end like this.

On one hand he was angry at having been knocked out by an – as of yet – unknown person. The act itself counted as a crime and Atobe knew he could easily press charges. But then again, his own behaviour prior to this had not been flattering either.

In fact, now, that the alcohol had stopped obscuring his senses, he felt appalled. Hadn't he resolved not to lower himself to the status of all the other men trying to win affection with money? Hadn't he wanted to give this new notion a chance; this _love_ that people everywhere were praising?

Heaving a sigh, he straightened up. It didn't quite help his resolve either that in the back of his mind a voice kept reminding him, that – regardless of whatever idea he himself entertained – Fuji ought not have rejected him.

And Tezuka.

Kabaji had told him Fuji had gone and stayed at Tezuka's small apartment last night. He shouldn't be bothered, he knew, but something deep in his chest was aching. The sensation was unfamiliar and Atobe wasn't yet sure what to do about it.

But he had to do something or he'd go insane.

* * *

"Fuji! Fuji!"

The actor woke to Tezuka softly shaking his shoulder. Buried underneath warm blankets he felt no inclination to get up, but smiled when Tezuka leaned down to place a soft kiss on the top of his nose.

"You have to get up." The writer whispered, affectionately tracing the white cheeks with his fingers, "Rehearsals will start in an hour."

A shadow crossed Fuji's face for a split second as the warm, illusory cocoon burst to be replaced by reality's obligations. He had yet to face Momoshirou and most certainly the Duke wouldn't take last night's events lying down…

"Are you feeling alright?" Tezuka asked, faint lines of concern visible on his face. Fuji just hadn't stopped trembling last night; not even after he'd told Tezuka everything. It had taken far too long for the boy's hands to warm up again and even longer for him to fall asleep, even in the safety of Tezuka's arms.

"Yes." Fuji answered softly. His throat felt a little sore and he hoped he wasn't coming down with something – he was planning to give his very best at the premier.

Tezuka brushed a couple of hairs aside. "If you're unwell, you should rest. You're still pale…"

"I'm okay." Fuji replied with a faint smile and sat up.

It was time to face reality.

* * *

"What did Atobe want?" Oishi asked the moment Atobe had left the director's office. Eiji followed him in, biting his lip nervously and Momoshirou looked dreadfully pale.

There was a contract lying on the table, but Oishi wasn't calm enough to read it over right now. They were all anxious since they'd heard about last night from Kawamura – who'd been reluctant to tell the entire story, but the little he had related had been bad enough.

Eiji had been about to run over to Tezuka's to make sure Fuji was alright, but Oishi had been able to convince him to stay. Tezuka most probably was capable of dealing with the situation on his own – and, most important of all – Tezuka was the person Fuji needed.

The change in the young actor since Tezuka's arrival was remarkable. Formerly false, shadowed smiles had turned bright and cheerful; and for once since Oishi had known the boy he'd been completely content.

Momoshirou's sigh drew him out of his contemplations.

"Close the door." The director advised and Eiji silently complied.

"Atobe…" Momoshirou slumped back into his chair, "Now owns the deeds to the Moulin Rouge."

"What?" Eiji exclaimed and Oishi felt all blood leave his head.

With a bitter smile the director carried on: "He said it's for financial security only. But, you know…"

They understood far too well. Far, far too well.

Straightening himself up, Momoshirou fixed both of them with a level glare. "Don't tell it anybody yet. Especially not Fuji."

* * *

Atobe's coach was parked in front of the Moulin Rouge when Tezuka and Fuji hurried over, five minutes before rehearsals were due to start. Fuji bit his lip and tried to keep his smile from fleeing, while Tezuka gave the contraption a dark glare.

Then the doors opened and their ways split.

Fuji was immediately accosted by an extremely worried Eiji, followed by Oishi who appeared no less concerned. Together with Gakuto and some other familiar faces they disappeared off-stage, while Oshitari fixed Tezuka with a contemplative frown.

When Tezuka raised an eyebrow questioningly, the blue-haired actor only shook his head – but his expression meant no good. Before Tezuka got a chance to inquire however, a hand on his shoulder distracted him.

Inui pushed his glasses up. "Did you finish the script?"

Blinking in surprise Tezuka nodded. "Yes."

"Momoshirou wants to see it, so could you please fetch it now?"

* * *

Upon entering his dressing room after fending of all the worried inquiries, Fuji was surprised to discover a large, beautifully arranged bouquet of white camellias, white carnations and purple hyacinths.

Stepping closer, he didn't hear Eiji entering. Only when the red-head spoke up, Fuji looked away from the elegant flower arrangement.

"They're from Atobe." Eiji commented darkly. "He said he'll be here to watch the afternoon rehearsals…"

Fuji nodded silently. And when Eiji had left again, he sighed and pressed his eyes together. Last night everything had gone wrong. Hadn't he made up his mind to…?

And now, Atobe had sent him purple hyacinths (i).

* * *

As promised, Atobe appeared later in the afternoon. He had wanted to come earlier, so that he might be able to speak to Fuji in private, but some business deals had taken longer than anticipated.

Fuji was already on stage, dressed in his half-finished vibrant red costume and singing beautifully, while backstage Inui experimented with the lightening. One moment the stage was bathed in red, the next the room held a soft, golden glow.

Momoshirou was stuck between acting his part and voicing his opinions on Inui's latest arrangement, but the other actors continued to play their parts without a hitch. Imagining the costumes finished and the stage decorated, the musical looked promising enough.

Still, Atobe felt safer with the deeds in his hand. If anything went wrong he could call things off at anytime he wanted – not that he intended to. And seeing Fuji on stage made him all the more certain that this musical was going to be a success.

When he went to take a seat in the front row however, he caught sight of Tezuka.

Perhaps the writer hadn't heard him enter, but his eyes were glued onto Fuji's small form. Almost obsessive, Atobe judged the way the writer was staring. Fuji most certainly was mesmerizing, but a gentleman ought to be able to keep himself in check.

… at least when he was sober.

Atobe couldn't quite chase away the dark emotions that had overcome him at seeing Tezuka already here – the writer was lucky to be able to spend so much time around Fuji. He had no prior business matters to attend to; could do what he wanted with his time…

Envy, while unsuited, was hard to avoid.

And then all of a sudden Fuji's voice stopped.

Atobe's head shot up, wide-eyed he stared as Fuji gasped for breath. Saw Eiji turn, paling rapidly; didn't even hear the music stop abruptly; could only watch as the actor tried to from words, to breath, to do anything…

Fuji's long eyelashes fluttered, one small, white hand reached out in a futile search of something to hold on, and then he collapsed.

* * *

There was a thick, all-encompassing darkness smothering Fuji's senses and somehow his body felt weightless, but far too lethargic to move at the same time. For once, he felt relaxed and warm and his lungs had stopped burning, even if his throat still felt sore. But he was already grateful there was no metallic aftertaste left in his mouth and he could breath without coughing.

A bit of fatigued had remained and for once Fuji was about to indulge; snuggle deeper into this soft cocoon and return into Hypnos' realm. But then the hand he hadn't even noticed holding his own left unexpectedly; a door closed somewhere far, far away.

"Atobe." Tezuka sounded fairly displeased. A rarity, really, as the man showed little emotion to the outside world. He had to be fairly stressed, Fuji deduced.

"Tezuka." Atobe replied, equally terse.

The steps came closer and Fuji felt those piercing eyes focus on himself. He wanted to curl away, but his body refused to move.

"Has your obsession reached the degree that you can't even give him a break anymore?" Atobe questioned, turning to Tezuka, who merely raised an eyebrow. "While we see the necessity of heightened pressure for good performing, there is such a thing as too much pressure."

"What are you saying?" Tezuka evenly asked, but Fuji could feel the tension building up far too well.

Atobe pressed his lips together. "Your presence is stressful for the actors, we feel."

And while Tezuka could only blink in surprise, Atobe had already gathered momentum.

"We'd appreciate it if you'd refrain from watching the rehearsals any further from this point on." Atobe coldly declared and Fuji felt the room temperature sinking by several degrees.

"I understand your desire to wish so." Tezuka replied, his words polite but his tone icy, "However as the writer there are no legal grounds for me to stay away."

Atobe merely raised an eyebrow. "The script has already been completed, as far as we know. We deem your presences detrimental to Fuji's health."

There was a moment of tense silence – long enough for dread to blossom in the depth of Fuji's stomach. Too many unspoken words still hung in the air and he had a very bad feeling about it.

"You are entitled to your own opinion, Atobe-sama." Tezuka answered, not losing an ounce of his composure. "Don't hold it against me if I feel inclined to disagree, though."

"So you will continue to come?" Atobe questioned and the almost gleeful undertone swinging in his voice raised Fuji's distrust to new levels. Tezuka, too, sensed something amiss.

"There is no valid reason to be absent." He carefully replied.

Atobe smirked. Slowly, almost sadistically the corners of his mouth moved upwards and he spoke the following words slowly, clearly savouring his triumph, even as Tezuka felt the ground slip out from under his feet.

"So you haven't heard yet. Just this morning we acquired the deeds to the Moulin Rouge."

Fuji's heart stopped. Had anybody looked they'd seen his fingers twitch, but the two men were wrapped in their conversation.

"And since that names us the legal owner and Moulin Rouge our private property we have every right to deny you further access."

Had Tezuka been a little less stoic, a little less self-controlled, only a little less calm, he'd have either broken down or flown at Atobe that very minute. Whatever foothold he'd had over the situation suddenly slipped through his fingers; his point of contact with Fuji violently destroyed by this annoyance.

Instead of wrapping his fingers around that neck hidden underneath a white lace scarf; or even punching that arrogant visage hard enough to break the nose and disfigure it permanently, Tezuka remained standing quietly where he was. Not a muscle in his face moved, though he was falling apart on the inside.

"Do you understand what we are saying, Tezuka?" Atobe asked suddenly, his victorious smirk wiped away; replaced by a far darker expression Tezuka had not yet seen on his face. Those eyes coldly bored into him and there was not a shadow of the civilized humanist Atobe pretended to be left. Not even the arrogance – this was the ruthless, unscrupulous businessman that had made fortunes.

Tezuka swallowed but refused to be intimidated. He remained standing near Fuji's prone form on the settee.

"If you ever set foot into the Moulin Rouge again without a proper invitation, I can not guarantee for your life."

Thunderstruck, Tezuka could only nod very, very slowly. He had no choice – even if his heart was wailing in protest and an abyss of swirling darkness threatening to overtake his soul. Fuji wanted to scream, but even if he'd been conscious he couldn't have – shock froze his mind, body and soul.

Atobe was plainly threatening Tezuka's life. When had things become like this? Why…

Why had everything come to such a painful conclusion?

"We have further business with the manager." Atobe calmly state, his arrogant, educated self completely restored, "When we return in twenty minutes, we expect you gone."

* * *

Even if Fuji remained pale, he insisted he was fine and rehearsals continued as scheduled during the following days. Atobe kept coming, and as Tezuka couldn't, Fuji made sure to go and visit the writer every evening, often also spending the night.

As the weather grew colder those moments when his hand touched the worn wood became precious. There was always a softly lit room awaiting him, a dinner and the warmth of Tezuka's embrace. More than often, they did barely more than embrace.

Rehearsals were becoming more and more taxing, often lasting long after sun set. Fuji grew increasingly tired, sometimes stumbling even on stage – but he tried to keep those moments as few as possible. He was all too aware of Eiji's worried eyes watching his back or Oishi's constant reminders to take it easy.

The coughing, though, was truly getting bothersome, because at times Fuji felt his voice scratch or notes go astray – which irked him, even if Choutarou said not to mind, he still hit far more right notes than Momoshirou.

Speaking of the director, the man was more subdued than usual. Fuji might not have noticed had he not overheard the conversation between Tezuka and Atobe, but like this he could easily tell that the changed ownership was deeply bothering Momoshirou. Still Fuji smiled, appreciating the effort Momoshirou put into making things seem alright – this kind of thoughtfulness was truly heart-warming.

The least Fuji could do in return was give his best on stage. And smile when asked if he was feeling alright; reassure everybody even if his head was spinning.

It was on one of those late afternoons after a long day of practice that Fuji felt particularly worn out. He tried his best not to let it show, but Eiji at least had caught on.

The very moment their scene was completed, the red head turned to Fuji, fixing his friend with a penetrating stare and said: "Sit down, Fuji. You look as if you're about to faint."

True, he felt like it, but Fuji raised his head and smiled the best smile he could manage. "Don't worry. I'm al …"

All of the sudden the ground wasn't underneath his feet anymore, the world was spinning, somebody screamed his name in the background and the world went black.

"Fuji!" Eiji jumped forward and barely managed to catch his friend's body before it hit the ground. Sinking to his knees he carefully gathered Fuji's unresponsive form in his arms. His friend's face was pale and even unconscious he was gasping for breath.

"Oishi! Oishi!"

"I suppose it might be stress." Oishi said calmer than he felt a few moments later when they had carried Fuji backstage and made sure the actor hadn't injured himself in the fall. Eiji nodded with a sigh, eyes inevitably travelling over to Fuji. The boy's breathing had evened out and he appeared to be resting peacefully – almost a rare sight these days.

"He lost a lot of weight recently…" Eiji muttered, stroking one pale hand.

Oishi pressed his lips together. "Eiji, it might have been only stress tonight, but …"

"I know." Eiji whispered forlornly, "I know."

When Fuji came to he was lying on an old settee, backstage with a bloodied handkerchief clutched in his right hand that just wouldn't stop trembling. He felt cold and dizzy, but Eiji's hand stroking his hair soothed the worst of the pain away.

Slowly opening his eyes Fuji turned a small smile on his long-time friend.

"Eiji…" his voice sounded uncharacteristically weak and Eiji looked heart-breakingly worried.

"Is he awake?" Somebody in the background asked and Fuji became aware of quite a couple of persons surrounding the settee. His first instinct was to sit up and apologize for worrying everybody, but his body refused to cooperate. Breathing alone hurt; sitting up was out of question.

There were Momoshirou and Oishi; Kawamura stood a little farther in the background; Gakuto and Oshitari near him.

A sense of dread blossomed in Fuji's stomach. Something he'd long known subconsciously; something he'd tried to deny …

"Fujiko-chan…" Eiji whispered, probably trying to be reassuring, however his voice emerged as a strangled sob. "I… We…"

Drawing a deep breath Oishi steeled his nerves and stepped forward. He knelt down beside Eiji so that he could look into Fuji's half-lidded, fever-glazed eyes.

"Fuji…"

Momoshirou bit his lip.

"I need to tell you something." Oishi started, his voice soft yet steady. "Your coughing…"

"…it's not a normal cold, is it?" The actor asked with a weak smile on his ghostly-pale face.

"No." Oishi confirmed. "It's tuberculosis."

Grave silence fell over the small group. Only distant sounds from the stage filled the air, while Eiji held his breath, waiting for Fuji's reaction. And the metallic taste spreading in Momoshirou's mouth told him his lip was bleeding – but he couldn't care less.

Fuji remained calm. With a faint smile on his face he turned to his friends. "I see."

He didn't even feel particularly shocked or grieved. Maybe he'd really known all along, but most of all, he didn't want everybody to look at him with _that_ expression. Fuji smiled because he didn't want people to worry; especially those treasured few he called his friends.

He wanted to see those precious persons happy.

Sadness had no place on Eiji's face, as little as he wanted to see Momoshirou frown anywhere else than during acting on stage. Oishi had already enough to worry about without adding Fuji on his list – so he resolved he'd do his best to make all of them forget about his illness.

One more question had to be answered, though.

Fuji managed to keep his smile from trembling when he turned to Oishi again.

"How long do I have?"

Oishi held his glance even if it broke his heart.

"Three month perhaps – if you take it easy. Otherwise…"

He just couldn't bring himself to say that it might be a matter of mere weeks.

* * *

"There is something I'd like to talk to you about." Momoshirou started, as soon as Tezuka had settled down opposite of him.

The writer nodded silently.

Momoshirou sighed and decided to go straight to the point. "We'll change the ending."

There was no visible reaction from Tezuka and that disturbed Momoshirou far more than any expression of rage or discontent would have done.

"I spoke with the Duke and the actors and everybody feels that the ending – while beautiful, very much so – just won't go too well with the audience. It's just too … too intellectual. This musical is meant to amuse people, entertain them – not to make them think. I know wanting to change the world or the way people think has long since been the task of writers and philosophers – but not ours."

Tezuka remained stoic. After Momoshirou failed to say anything else, he asked: "How will the play end, then?"

"Most people suggested turning it into a tragedy." Momoshirou looked away, out of the window, "Traviataii-style or something like that. The Duke however was rather insistent the story should have a happy ending."

All Momoshirou got in return was one barely raised eyebrow; otherwise Tezuka appeared not half as surprised as the director himself had been when Atobe had announced his expectations. Even Fuji had looked stunned for a moment then.

"When the sitar player is about to be executed the henchman changes targets at last minute and shots the Maharajah." Momoshirou recounted, sounding not very convinced. "Because the Maharajah has been an unfair tyrant people are rebelling … I know it's not very good, but the audience can understand that scheme. Revolutions and rebellions have always been popular – and are far easier to understand than the idea of liberty as the greatest proof of love."

"I understand." Tezuka replied tonelessly and Momoshirou felt like sighing.

* * *

Gathering his resolve, Fuji raised his hand to knock on the door.

For a single moment he let himself dwell on those gold-tinted memories. How often had he come here feeling cheerful? How often had his hands touched this wood already and had he ever spent a time more happy than within the room that lay beyond?

But no more, no more.

Tonight he'd play the role of his life. Tonight he'd settle things. And then cling onto those wonderful memories of happy days for whatever time remained.

There was no more time for contemplation, or unintentionally tear-shedding. Tezuka opened the door, already dressed down for the night. His eyes widened in surprise at seeing Fuji, but narrowed instantly.

The unreadable expression on Fuji's face hadn't escaped the writer's notice.

"Tezuka." Fuji started, voice even, "We need to talk."

A nod and Tezuka opened the door. "Come in, then."

Fuji stepped, but did not sit down. The room was just as softly lit as always and the welcoming warmth threatened to overwhelm his senses for a few moments, but Fuji steeled his resolve.

It would be better for everybody if he broke things off with Tezuka. Not because of Atobe, no, even though Fuji dimly understood that at one point in the future he might have had to decide between the two men.

Considering what Oishi had told him however… A faint smile crawled to his lips. He loved Tezuka, loved him from the bottom of his heart and only wanted to see him happy.

Having a beloved die in front of his eyes would certainly cause far greater unhappiness than the impending quarrel. If Tezuka hated him, Fuji concluded, he could die with his mind at peace.

"I won't be seeing you anymore." Fuji announced.

Tezuka flinched, turning around. Confusion swam in his eyes, mixed with hurt and suspicion and Fuji wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around those wide shoulders and take his words back.

"Is it because of the Duke?"

The actor shook his head.

"Why then?" Tezuka asked and Fuji heard the well-suppressed tremble in that smooth voice. It hurt to see Tezuka look at him like this, to watch his heart break, but …

This was no place for compassion. If Fuji tried to reason Tezuka would not hate him, but only be sad and grieve. And this was not what Fuji wanted.

Telling himself this was another play, Fuji slowly raised his head, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "Are you sure you want to know?"

Confused at the strange behaviour, Tezuka fell silent, watching in disbelief.

"You finished the script, didn't you?" Fuji asked coolly, straightening himself up and brushed his fingers disdainfully over the table. How often had they eaten here together? Had talked about the most whimsical things and …

No regrets now.

"I don't need you anymore."

Tezuka's eyes opened wide, thunderstruck. Silence hung gravely over the small room, with Fuji seemingly uncaring and Tezuka fishing for words.

"What?" ,was all the writer managed in the end. There was barely any blood left in his face and the oncoming sadness reflected in those hazel orbs had Fuji's heart aching.

"Not what." The actor replied, shrugging his shoulders, "That's it. The play's over, you can go home. Or come and watch, I don't care."

Tezuka breathed in audibly. "Wh … are you saying you have been using me?"

"Such a harsh way of putting it." Fuji shot back, "But I guess, yes."

Sadness gave away to indignation. Anger. Fuji felt his soul tremble at the sight, but had to remind himself, that this was exactly he reaction he had wanted.

"Everything was a lie?" Tezuka questioned, voice growing louder, even if disbelief was yet stronger than rage. "Everything you told me… everything we did together… all of that was fake?"

Fuji smiled calmly. "I am an actor, Tezuka. It is my job to make people see what they want to see."

"You mean … you … I…" Tezuka sputtered and Fuji used the moment to further this heart-breaking exercise in cruelty. "It was rather easy to fool you, if I may say so. I had expected you to be somewhat harder to crack, but well… Did you honestly believe I'd pick you over Atobe? Are you that naïve?"

Even if he could feel the air trembling with tension and anger, Fuji went on: "I needed a script, fast preferably, to win the Duke for the project, so I'm rather grateful you appeared on the scene back then. And also helped me to make the Duke so nicely jealous. You're too nice for your own good, really."

Steeling his nerves, Fuji raised his eyes to meet Tezuka's.

"But for what reason should I fall in love with a penniless, naïve day-dreamer when a wealthy, world-wise Duke is the alternative? I'm really surprised you thought I actually loved you…"

The deed had been done. Fuji could see the whirling emotions in Tezuka's eyes, how firmly the writer was pressing his lips together and felt tears well up in his own eyes.

"I never loved you either!" Tezuka yelled after a split second and stormed out.

Fuji felt him brush past but made no move to stop him, even if his heart was screaming. Furiously he tried to blink away the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes; not moving even as a door slammed shut and Tezuka's footsteps grew distant.

Maybe he'd never see that man again.

He'd just gone and intentionally destroyed what little happiness had remained in his life. Told the cruellest lie to the only man he'd ever loved. And still loved so much it hurt just to recall his face.

And those hands, so warm and gentle…

With a choked sob Fuji collapsed to his knees.

This is it, he thought, the morbid finality almost sweet to his shattered heart, this is the end. He had nothing left to loose.

"I love you…" Fuji gasped, voice trembling, burying his face in his hands, "I love you…"

* * *

(i) Purple hyacinths I'm sorry

To all readers: thank you very much for reading to this point, and you'd make me very happy if you left a comment on what you liked or not liked.


	5. Finale

**Moulin Rouge - Part V**

* * *

**Pairing**: TezuFuji (main), one-sided AtoFuji; other canon pairings

**Summary**: Finale. Tezuka gets dragged back to the Moulin Rouge for the premier and things play out from there

**Warnings**: Character death, long, possible ooc, scenes play out different than in the movie.

**A/N**: 5/5. Finally complete. ^_^ I apologize for taking so horribly long (again) and thank you very much for all your kind reviews. They mean a lot to me (i.e. make me come up with new ideas and more stories), so I am forever grateful. *bows*

**

* * *

**

Moulin Rouge

V

Eiji could tell something was off when Tezuka didn't appear to watch their rehearsals anymore, but instead there was Atobe and Atobe alone sitting in the front row with his eyes never leaving Fuji.

And while Atobe's presence wasn't as bad as expected – the man at times proved he possessed a dry, but quite charming sense of humour and more than an ounce of thoughtfulness, he wasn't Tezuka. Because, no matter what Fuji claimed or how bright those smiles directed at Atobe were, Eiji knew that for some unfathomable reason, the writer alone had captured Fuji's heart.

But Tezuka failed to show his face. Neither did Fuji leave for overnight stays at his place anymore. Oshitari, when asked for reasons, could only helplessly shrug his shoulders.

For the oddest reason even Atobe appeared somewhat concerned. The Duke had stopped demanding for Fuji to accompany him to fancy restaurants, but instead was completely content to exchange a few words after each rehearsal before leaving. What had not ebbed away were the presents and Eiji couldn't help but suppress a sad smile at times.

"He's quite thoughtful…" Oishi had once uttered, drawing curious glances. Atobe's present, that night, had been a beautifully woven cashmere coat; soft and warm, just exactly the thing Fuji needed amid falling temperatures and rainy evenings.

It was Gakuto, however, who muttered the condemning words: "If he'd only fallen for Atobe…"

And even if Eiji was quick to protest and Gakuto agreed even faster, there was no way to wipe the frown away from Oishi's face or chase the ideas from everyone's mind. Not for them, no; even if a liaison between Atobe and Fuji might have mitigated relations immensely; but for a much more profound reason.

The one nobody dared to voice – Atobe had the capacity to command the resources necessary to save Fuji's life.

Since however Fuji had lost his heart to Tezuka, the resulting choice had been harsh. Love or life – nobody, nobody among them would have ever blamed Fuji had he decided to elope with Tezuka. Or pick Atobe for the mere reason of easing his suffering if not curing that painful sickness.

Yet Fuji had chosen neither.

And it broke Eiji's heart.

* * *

On stage, Fuji was a true sight to behold by now.

He'd lost a painful amount of weight, but there was so much impossible more elegance to every movement and his voice – he had an audience spell-bound within the first two lines of a song; could chase away any doubts and worries with a mere couple of notes.

Regardless of his own emotions, Fuji thought with a slight smile.

It made him happy to see everybody look at him with wide-open eyes, see incredulous smiles blossom on disbelieving faces, watch as admiration grew even on Atobe's impassive face. Or those small, honest smiles after rehearsals – it made him all the sadder for being incapable of returning Atobe's affections.

But he'd made his choice and even if his own heart was breaking, it had been the better decision to stop deceiving the Duke – no matter how much he missed Tezuka's warmth at his side.

A sudden coughing fit took Fuji at surprise.

There was only a split second in which he couldn't breathe; then the golden lights spun wildly and when he came to he was lying on a couch behind the stage.

"Fujiko…" Eiji trailed of, lingering worriedly in the background.

Fuji's finger tightened around the bloody tissue. Momoshirou bit his lip, and Fuji could tell something was eating his friend and manager from the inside.

"I…" Momoshirou glanced away, into the direction of the stage where rehearsals were still taking place, "I don't want to ask anything anymore of you, Fuji. You've already done more than enough. And now…"

He had to look away again, but Fuji hadn't missed the tears welling up.

"I want to finish this play, Momoshirou." Fuji said, softly but determined. "You know I'd always hoped for a chance to stand on stage and play a real role. And now, that this dream is within reach – don't take away the only thing I've ever really wanted to do."

"But the Duke…" Eiji muttered from the background, and Momoshirou only gestured at him to be silent.

"I know." Fuji said with a soft smile, "The Duke holds the deeds. The Duke is paying for all of this – this is going nowhere without him."

Momoshirou hung his head. "Yes. Maybe. But still, you shouldn't … I mean, you don't love him."

"But he's got the ticket to fulfil all our dreams." Fuji replied, still gentle.

"What about Tezuka?" Eiji demanded, stepping forward, face scrunched up in concern.

Fuji directed the most heart-breakingly sweet smile at him Momoshirou had ever seen. "I love him. But you heard the doctor – I won't live long. It wouldn't be fair to him if I did anything. So I'll do what I can to make everybody happy."

"Oh Fujiko…" Eiji choked out, stumbling forward and gathering his smaller friend up in his arms. "Fujiko-chan." He buried his head in the crook of Fuji's neck, undoubtedly letting the tears fall that remained burning in the corners of Momoshirou's eyes.

Fuji managed to stifle a cough and then brought one hand up to gently stroke Eiji's vibrant red hair. "It's okay, Eiji." He whispered, slightly breathless and it tore painfully at Momoshirou's heart to see how illness was weakening Fuji slowly but certainly.

"It's okay." Fuji repeated, but Eiji only clung to him like a drowning man would cling to a raft.

Because, really, Momoshirou thought, it wasn't okay. Nothing was ever going to be okay again. Fuji was going to die and he planned on spending those last days playing a charade, rejecting perhaps the only person he'd ever truly loved.

"Fuji." Momoshirou said after a while, slowly trying to find the right words to say, "Please don't feel obliged. You don't owe us a thing, so don't …"

'Don't go and do something that stupid.' Momoshirou wanted to say, but found himself unable to, faced with that gentle smile on Fuji's pale, pale face.

"Fuji, this is … I don't know, could be your last chance, so don't go and make yourself unhappy." He flashed a weak smile in Fuji's direction, "The Duke might have us by the neck, but honestly – this isn't your problem. And we'll live somehow, anyways. We've managed without the Duke before, too."

"Thank you, Momo." Fuji replied, "Thank you."

But Momoshirou could see that his words of encouragement hadn't done a thing to change Fuji's mind.

* * *

The following days passed in a blur of rehearsals, last minute adjustments and a general state of panic and elevation. Nerves were blank and more than once Eiji and Gakuto had to be physically restrained from attacking each other.

At those times Momoshirou felt incredibly grateful to Oshitari's presence. The lead actor remained calm and collected and always managed to find the right words to distract Gakuto from whatever he was fighting with Eiji about.

Oshitari, too, kept a wakeful eye on Fuji's steadily worsening condition, calling for breaks more often than usual and keeping water and tissues close by. It did little good, though – Oishi looked grimmer after each check-up and recently Fuji had taken to not relating the results anymore.

But even without the doctor's diagnosis, Momoshirou could see that Fuji was running out of time. Their lead actor for the female part had lost an almost incredible amount of weight in a short time; and while he'd appeared small and fragile before, he'd been trained and fit. Now, however, barely an ounce of that strength remained and more than once Fuji had fainted during rehearsals.

Still, his voice on stage remained strong and enthralling. When he was up there and acting it was far too easy to belief everything was alright, and Fuji always looked truly happy after finishing a song or a scene, smiling brightly.

Oishi had prescribed rest, however. 'He won't live to see next month if he keeps going at this rate.' The doctor once had confessed to Momoshirou, silently, behind the scenes, because he didn't want Eiji to hear and worry and further.

Fuji, however, knew. But it seemed he had stopped caring – attending more rehearsals than he strictly needed, suddenly giving his everything in each and every song. And spell-binding every single person in the area.

Certainly, Fuji had been good before. But that was nothing compared to now. The vocals, the acting, the gestures – were executed with something far beyond Fuji's usual unshakeable perfection.

And Tezuka, Tezuka who had always been a little sceptical about Fuji's performance, always claiming there was something lacking, wasn't even there to watch. Now, that the script had been finished, the writer had stopped appearing; and at times Momoshirou felt like running over and dragging the writer here by the scruff of his neck.

But sitting in the front row, watching rehearsals instead of Tezuka, was Atobe. Atobe Keigo, utterly captivated by Fuji's performance, yet completely unaware of his sickness. Fuji had directly forbidden them to tell him – refusing to reveal anymore weaknesses to a man he so obviously didn't love but still tried to make happy. Everybody was less than happy with the arrangement, most of them all probably Oishi.

There were medicaments out there, the doctor had once informed Momoshirou just after another practice break in order for Fuji rest had ended, they were expensive and couldn't cure the sickness, no, but they could slow it down considerably.

"It's only a question of weeks, now." Oishi had added, "With those medicament it might be month, perhaps even one or two years."

Later that night, Momoshirou had directly confronted Fuji. "… please, this is the least that man can do for you; it's not as if that would be much money for him."

Fuji however had remained firm. "And then, those two years I'll gain – to spend them with Keigo? He isn't a bad man, Momoshirou, but as you said, I don't love him. And somehow I think we've been using him too much already."

Another wonderfully warm smile. "So I'd rather have him believe this lie if it makes him happy. And I can keep doing what makes me happy this way, too."

* * *

With a sigh Tezuka turned to the window. The sun had just appeared somewhere beyond the smog fogged horizon. One hour until the show at the Moulin Rouge started.

The invitation from Oshitari still rested on his desk even though he'd contemplated burning it more than once. So the Duke had won and Fuji wasn't Tezuka's – and why did he even care?

Hadn't Fuji stated things clear enough? Calling everything between them a lie, a façade, an act. He was only a somewhat talented writer and they depended on his play – the moment it had been finished there was no need for any further contact.

He could be with Atobe as far as Tezuka cared. Those two were obviously made for each other – shallow as they were. He'd had enough of make-believe and people betraying their ideals for vulgar reasons. Tomorrow morning he'd take the first train back to the coast and if things worked out, he'd be in London two days from now.

There, he'd install himself as a lawyer, forget about Paris, the Moulin Rouge and Fuji, and then, someday, he'd marry a nice, decent woman and have some children with her. Believing in foolish ideals didn't pay off – he'd teach them. They were nice to look at, impressive to speak of, but useless in everyday life.

Much calmer than before he turned away from the window, looking around in his room. Only one more night, than he'd be gone from this hole. The ceiling still hadn't been repaired, but that would be the problem of the next tenant.

He was just about to return to folding his clothes, when a sharp, urgent knock at the door tore him from his contemplations. Wondering whether it might just be the landlord coming to collect the key a day early, Tezuka opened without inquiring first.

And met with Momoshirou's flushed red face mere five centimetres away. Hot breath hit his face, Tezuka recoiled but Momoshirou advanced instantly.

"Tezuka." The Moulin Rouge's director bit out between gasps – had he run over? – "Come. The show will start soon."

Tezuka's expression didn't waver. "No." he replied and turned away

"Oi, what the hell are you trying to pull?" Momoshirou asked behind him, "Running away? Coward's way out?"

Tezuka restarted folding one of his dress shirts. The smell of one particularly fresh perfume still clung to it.

"Did Fuji hurt your feelings? And now you don't have enough courage to even face him anymore? Oi, Tezuka, are you a man or a mouse?!"

Grinding his teeth Tezuka reminded himself not to react. He'd made up his mind. He wouldn't go and watch even if he wrote the sketch himself. No more Fuji in his life. Never again.

"What about Fuji's feelings? Did you ever stop to think about his side of the story? Do you know why he agreed to go out with Atobe? Did you ever stop to put two and two together? Or do you plan on wallowing in self-pity forever, clinging onto pathetic delusions when the truth is right in front of your eyes?"

A sweaty hand fell onto his shoulder and Tezuka even though Tezuka felt like shrugging it off, he remained motionless.

"Do you even have the slightest idea what Fuji is going through to make everyone happy? Your stupid self included?"

That hand was trembling. Whether with anger or with sorrow Tezuka couldn't tell – only those emotions were threatening to tear open the gates in his heart he had so firmly closed. Already he could feel the turmoil underneath the frozen surface.

"We're finished." Tezuka stoically replied, refusing to budge from his place. Strong fingers clenched painfully on his shoulder as Momoshirou's face darkened threateningly.

"The boy is an actor, Tezuka! An actor! Just how blind are you?!"

Tezuka had not dared to entertain the mere idea. Because, if that scene had been fake, if that had been a façade and he'd failed to see through it – he'd never quite forgive himself. Still, there were so many things to consider and last but not least, Atobe's threat remained.

Unemotionally Tezuka said: "It if of no consequence."

Perhaps it was more of an attempt to retain his own façade; to convince himself – but Momoshirou's eyes lit up with an unholy fire.

"You…!"

All of a sudden, the hand wasn't on Tezuka's shoulder anymore, but clenched to fist that connected violently with Tezuka's cheek. The writer's head whipped around; stumbling backwards Tezuka grabbed hold of a table to keep himself from falling.

"You know, you don't even deserve him!" Momoshirou yelled, "And if I didn't know that tonight might probably be his …"

The director caught himself at the last possible minute and instead of completing his sentence fixed Tezuka with a dark glare. Reaching out he once again grabbed hold of Tezuka's arm.

"Just come on and watch the show!"

Numbly he let himself be pulled out to the streets, only dimly aware of his smarting cheek and the cold air. Momoshirou was marching forward at a brisk pace, taking no note of anything around them, his face still flushed an angry red.

When the streets grew smaller, turned into small, dark alleyways between smoke-darkened houses he eventually recognized the way they were taking. And certainly, soon enough Momoshirou pushed his way through cardboard boxes and a maze of indescribable thing to violently push open one old, iron door.

"Come on!" he hissed when he felt Tezuka hesitating.

He could hear the music playing inside from here. Could already see the bright colours, golden lightening and the beautiful, laughing faces in there. The memories of warm smiles, the sensation of silk underneath his fingertips and skin on skin were far too present.

But Atobe…

"Come!" Momoshirou was beyond exasperated. He had to be on stage again in ten minutes himself, so he had little time to spare. Especially not for somebody like Tezuka.

With one forceful tug he dragged the writer inside, while Tezuka wondered if Cesar had felt the same when he'd crossed the Rubicon(i).

* * *

The lights were blindingly bright and within the darkness countless waiting eyes were fixed on the stage. Jewels glittered like little stars when diamond necklaces caught the light as their owners moved. Hushed voices exchanged whispered conversations, feathered fans waved gently as if to dispel the tense, expectant atmosphere.

"It's completely sold out." Eiji reported breathlessly. Oishi could easily see that his face was pale underneath the stage make-up. Nervousness had replaced playfulness for the moment – ten minutes until the show was due to start.

"Tonight will be amazing." Oshitari said, silently stepping up behind them. His stage outfit was complete; a breath-taking arrangement of silk and cotton in colours brighter than the sun. The man appeared confident, a small smile on his lips as he reached out to pat Gakuto's shoulder reassuringly.

The petit red head turned; his eyes wide and looking younger than he was underneath all the glitter. "There are so many people out there…"

"And we worked hard for that." Inui smoothly interjected while passing by, an odd assortment of chemicals, light bulbs and unidentifiable paraphernalia clutched in his arms.

Choutarou flashed a shy smile into Shishido's direction, as the dark haired boy hurried after Inui. "Yet it's something completely different…"

"Yes." Eiji Gakuto timidly agreed, "We've performed before, but you know… it wasn't so much about the performance. But tonight it's as if we were a real theatre…"

"Isn't that what you always dreamed of?" Oshitari questioned, eyes gazing thoughtfully in the direction of still shut dark velvet curtains, "The one goal high above all the others; the one abstract dream that most of us had expected to remain just that for eternity – but alas, Fortuna's fickleness has dealt us a surprising development."

Those deep, dark, bewitching eyes refocused on his immediate surroundings. "So maybe we should stop questioning what patterns the ladies of the water(ii) are weaving, leave all snakes and eagles(iii) to those gentlemen in Vienna(iv) and instead of pondering what the future may or may not hold, we should just enjoy the moment."

Drawing himself up to his full height, Oshitari spread out his hands. "How long have we been dreaming about this? How long – and now this moment has finally come. So instead of fretting – let us all do our very best."

"Let us make this a night nobody will ever forget."

* * *

All of a sudden the lights dimmed.

Eiji's eyes flew open.

Silence fell – a moment of tension; skyrocketing expectations and butterflies spreading their wings, fluttering nervously in Eiji's stomach. Oishi held his breath, strained his ears, listening to catch a sound, if any …

Gakuto bit his lip.

And then the lights came on again; the music started and already after the first three cords Oishi felt the hair on his arms standing up. The notes rang out, clear and loud, echoing wonderfully in the wide hall – but, blinking slowly, all eyes focused on the appearance in the centre of the stage.

Dressed in stunning, oscillating colours Fuji stood in the middle, a small, almost demure smile on rose-red lips. A diamond necklace glittered sparkled brightly in the limelight; honey hair appeared golden and Jirou let go of a breath he had been holding.

If anything, that expression in Fuji's eyes …

Eiji's hands trembled and at his side Oshitari could only nod in silence, as if confirming his own prediction.

The harmony changed, from F to D minor; Fuji cast his eyes down for half a second before raising his head again, flashing the most enthralling smile at the audience. One deep breath… And then that beautiful, clear voice rang out. Strong, rich, all-encompassing – captivating the entire audience within barely five notes.

Disbelief; white-faced admiration and pure, unaltered surprise on many faces; fans involuntarily stopping in mid-movement; men forgetting to breath – the Parisian society was successfully enchanted. And even Inui felt a fine tremor in his fingers – never before Fuji had sung the sharp notes that precise or clearly.

And the dominants, oh those dominant chords… Maybe he'd died and gone to heaven. No opera star of this century, not in any of the opera houses he'd visited within his life Atobe had ever heard a more beautiful voice. Hitting the right notes was one thing, he logically understood – but what Fuji was doing was beyond.

Far, far beyond anything he could logically comprehend.

_Perfect_, Tezuka thought in his hiding place behind the stage the very moment the first notes rang out, _This is it. This is…_

The quantum that had always been missing; the small edge that Tezuka had always felt lacking – no matter how beautiful Fuji's voice, how seductive his smiles might have been prior to this; Tezuka had in some obscure, instinctive way known that hadn't been the true extent of Fuji's talent.

But tonight, tonight Fuji wasn't holding back anything anymore. Tonight the small brunet was allowing an already completely enchanted audience to witness what he truly was capable of. Within the span of five minutes the universe had been inverted.

Ten minutes into Fuji's solo and Eiji had entirely forgetting about his nervousness, while Oishi surreptitiously wiped at his burning eyes. The world outside; all traces of the rainy autumn night had disappeared from perception. Audience and actors were lost in small, exclusive world full of wonderful music and fantastic sceneries – reality, with all its short comings was left outside.

* * *

"No, Oshitari, I…"

Tezuka still had no idea how Oshitari had managed to find him where he was hidden behind stage – maybe Momoshirou had told him. But in the break between the first and the second act the lead actor had stormed upstairs and pulled Tezuka from his corner.

The writer had more than once tried to convince Oshitari to stop what he was doing, but the blue-haired man wasn't listening to any of Tezuka's protests. With quick and precise movements he stripped his turban, shirt and jacket and proceeded to dress Tezuka with them.

"You love him, don't you, Tezuka?" Oshitari asked and yanked the turban on rougher than necessary. When the writer remained silent, he continued. "And you know that he's sick and in love with you, too? Then why don't you go out there?"

"But he…"

"Damn it Tezuka!" Oshitari was practically yelling, "That boy is an actor and a whore! And you know that! So swallow your stupid pride for once and all and get your ass out there and tell him what you feel!"

Tezuka remained unmoving, even as Oshitari's gestures grew considerably more violent.

"Tezuka! Fuji is about to die! Do you really want him to die believing you hate him? … because if that's what you want… then I've never met a more pitiful excuse for a human being."

"… what?"

Oshitari sharply glanced up. Tezuka, white-faced, stared back at him; confusion mixed with dark foreboding reflecting in hazel eyes. And the lead actor couldn't help sighing, trying to calm his own raging temper.

Nobody had told Tezuka the whole truth, it seemed.

"Fuji is…?" Tezuka repeated in disbelief; even if his racing mind managed to fit the pieces together to a dreadful picture. All the coughing … Momoshirou, Oishi and all the others … those worried expressions.

And even their very last night together …? Was all this because of …?

"Yes." Oshitari replied bitingly, "He'll die. And because he didn't want an oaf like you mourning him, he broke up with you."

Tezuka's heart shuddered to a stop. His mind whirling from the implications – he needed to, oh, he needed to - Yet his mouth protested automatically. "But the Duke…"

"This isn't about the Duke!" Oshitari yelled.

"But he's got his man set on me! He's going to kill me!" Even as he uttered the words, Tezuka suddenly felt very, very pathetic. What kind of a man was he, to pick cowardice over his heart? What…

"Even that man – cold-blooded as he may be – won't shoot you in front of a full audience. The Duke has more brains than that." Oshitari pressed his lips, grabbed Tezuka by the lapels and pulled him closer.

"For God's sake, just go out there. I'd long since have rooted for the Duke, but Fujiko-chan never stopped loving you. So please… if only for tonight. Everybody here wants nothing more than to see him happy…"

There were tears in the corners of Oshitari's eyes, Tezuka realized. And icy spread through his veins, as the horrible revelation settled in. Even though he'd known of Fuji's illness, known that he was running out of time – he thought his condition was that sever.

Than again, he hadn't seen Fuji in almost half a month – but still… for a sickness to advance that rapidly…

"Now, GO!"

Oshitari violently shoved him forward, voice half-choked with unshed tears and Tezuka stumbled into motion. Almost on autopilot his feet carried him toward the stage, the music and the lights.

He could hear Fuji's voice, strong and passionate, better than ever before; Choutarou working magic on the instruments and Inui bewitching the audience with smoke and lights. The tap-tap of high-heeled shoes hitting the wood betrayed the dancers; the 'owws' and 'awws' coming from the audience clearly indicated solo parts by either Kikumaru or Gakuto.

Clearly, tonight everybody was giving his very, very best.

And he'd intended to stay back. Pack his suitcase and return. So, drawing a very deep breath he steeled his nerves for the riskiest endeavour he'd ever undertaken in his entire life.

Then he stepped out into the limelight.

Fuji's eyes flew open – for a split second, far to short to be picked up by an outsider – everybody on stage froze in surprise. Torn between happiness and anger Eiji only glanced at Tezuka before recalling his part, just as Gakuto did.

Blue eyes lingered maybe a second longer and Tezuka already felt his knees weaken, but then a small, private smile blossomed on Fuji's lips. He hadn't expected to see Tezuka ever again, thus having him here, tonight meant more than all the jewellery and fame in the world.

Having Tezuka by his side one more – one very last time – even if only in a play was the most he could hope for. Was more than he'd dared to wish for. And whatever turn of fate had brought the handsome writer here tonight, he'd be eternally grateful.

* * *

"How do you like the play so far?" Momoshirou asked, eyeing the Duke nervously. There was no way in all seven circles of hell that the man had missed Tezuka's appearance on stage. And even if, for some reason, Momoshirou didn't really care for the Duke's opinion – their musical was a success, even before the last curtain had fallen – he couldn't help but dimly worry about the future.

The Moulin Rouge was completely dependant on Atobe Keigo.

Those cool grey eyes glittered with a strange light; one that Momoshirou had never seen before. Atobe tugged a little at his impeccable suit – a shining icon of expensive tailoring even among the sea of wealthy gentlemen populating the audience.

"It is quite fetching." Atobe smoothly replied and Momoshirou found it hard to read his face. "I'd very much like to congratulate Fuji."

Pale lips quirked up in a small smile. "He looks rather pale as of late. Maybe he should rest for a while after the performance has been done."

Atobe almost flinched at the cold glance Momoshirou rewarded his statement with. On the inside however, the corners of his lips drooped – his suspicions were confirmed; especially when Momoshirou heaved a deep sigh.

Halting in a shadowed corner out of the path of the extremely busy stage hands Momoshirou took one good, long look at the Duke; ignoring the dictations of social standing completely. The man, for all his ruthlessness, was most certainly no idiot. And he'd proven – more than once - that he cared neither for fashionable naïve idealism or stiff, unyielding social boundaries.

Maybe, just maybe, Atobe Keigo wasn't so very different from them.

Just another human being; just another player in this game, even if he'd grown up with the literal silver spoon in his mouth. But observing him watch Fuji; seeing all those small affectionate gestures – he certainly was trying.

Those feelings weren't affected. There was nothing to be gained for Atobe from an alliance with Fuji. Nothing material, and especially no social status.

"Let me be honest." Momoshirou said, slowly; still wondering if he was making the right decision. But once more, he unconsciously recalled Oishi's harsh prediction, Fuji's carefree smile and the disconcerting sensation of responsibility – of being able to change this.

If a few, well-meant words could prolong Fuji's life, then he would speak them. And even if it meant that Fuji was going to hate him for eternity – if the boy's personal dream could come true, then he'd bear it.

Sober brown eyes met grey.

"Fuji is sick. Very sick. Has been for a long time."

Atobe's expression changed imperceptibly. A shadow seemed to sink over his eyes, but within the twilight Momoshirou couldn't tell. For a moment the busy noises of changing backgrounds was the only sound filling the air.

Then Atobe nodded slowly. "It's tuberculosis, isn't it?"

Momoshirou blinked in surprise – but then he recalled that Atobe was as educated as world-wise; so the Duke might have guessed Fuji's sickness long before he'd even started suspecting.

"He didn't want to let anybody know." Momoshirou added, looking away, "Fuji really wanted to …"

"He isn't being treated now, right?" Atobe sharply interrupted, "We'll make arrangements as soon as tonight's show is finished. We'll …"

"Director!" a sudden voice cut into their conversation and Momoshirou turned to fix the approaching stage hand with a deep frown. "Director, we have a problem! Please come along!"

Swallowing, Momoshirou nodded into Atobe's direction. "I apologize. But you should find Fuji in the small room on the left just when you go off stage."

* * *

"Tezuka… I…" Fuji gasped with tears glittering in his eyes. "No. You can't …"

He started coughing then, small, wet coughs that he tried to stifle with a plain white cloth – that already bore more red stains then Tezuka felt comfortable seeing. Biting his lip the writer reached out a hand – why, oh why had he only realized so late? Why had he been so blind? – to touch Fuji's shoulder.

The actor raised his head, blue eyes met brown. "You shouldn't love me. Not after everything I said to you … not since…"

"I don't care." Tezuka replied, a gentle, sad smile playing on his lips. "I love you, no matter what."

Outside thunderous claps echoed. The last act was about to begin.

Fuji's red lips trembled in the twilight. "I'm sick. Tezuka, I'll only bring you sadness. I'll … I'm going to die soon."

His heart was breaking, yet Tezuka couldn't help but smile reassuringly. Every gesture, no matter how small, merely served to tell him just how much Fuji had cared all along. How all had been set up for his sake alone, how all this had been endured until now … And how painfully blind he'd been.

"I know." He whispered huskily, "And I don't care."

Those blue eyes widened; their sparkled brighter and more beautiful than the diamonds around Fuji's small neck.

"I wish I could change fate. I wish I could – but then I can't even change my own words back then." Tezuka stated. "All I can do is apologize."

"Don't." Fuji ordered breathily, stepping closer to Tezuka, "Don't start apologizing. Because there are so many things I've done I should apologize for – to you, to Atobe, to everybody. Call me selfish, but I don't want to apologize."

A bright, dazzling smile blossomed on the small, white face. "Not when there is something else I would much rather say."

And with that Fuji closed the last of the remaining distance between them, wrapping his arms around Tezuka's shoulders and – still reeling from those heart-breaking, sweet words – Tezuka returned the gesture.

"I love you, Tezuka." Fuji said, "I shouldn't, I know, much less even tell you so. I'll die soon and there's Atobe who's done so much for me … But I guess in the end the heart doesn't yield to any imperatives, social or rationalv. So, for what it still is worth, I love you Tezuka, I really do."

Up on the balustrade Atobe sighed deeply.

Just for those few moments that his face was hidden completely by the darkness and with nobody there to watch him, his expression fell. A ghost of something usually unseen and never openly displayed crossed the young Duke's face.

"So this is how the story ends." He whispered, mostly to himself and downstairs Fuji and Tezuka embraced, lost in their own universe.

Tearing his eyes away Atobe bit his lip to suppress the unfamiliar pain welling up in his chest.

"Kabaji."

"Us."

"Let us act for a bit."

* * *

The curtain rose for the final act and Fuji felt dizzy with all the lights directed at him. This sea of glittering eyes, sparkling jewels and most of all, this exhilarating atmosphere were leaving him breathless. Never before standing on stage had been so thrilling, never before he'd felt quite like this.

There was Eiji, already exuberantly happy with their success, Momoshirou's wide, completely content smile, those thumbs-up Inui had flashed at him in passing, Oshitari's amused smirk – and most of all Tezuka at his side.

Tezuka's hand holding onto his, firmly, unwaveringly, even if the rest of the world was spinning. Lines passed without him even realizing it, and Fuji sang better than ever before, even if he could feel his strength draining.

Settling back down onto the cushions he took a deep breath – the last solo had taken far more out of him than expected. He had to blink twice to focus his vision again and there was nothing he could do about the pain in his lungs.

Only pray he wouldn't start coughing before the performance was complete.

Then the Maharajah stepped in front of him, just as the script dictated. Fuji raised his eyes – and met cool grey instead of Momoshirou's brown ones. At the very last moment he stifled a surprised gasp, though Tezuka couldn't stop himself from shuddering.

Hidden underneath the Maharajah's colourful costume was none other than Atobe Keigo. What was he …?

And then the Duke opened his mouth.

And sang.

The very lines the Maharajah ought to sing; delivering them with perfect timing and not one wrong note. Eiji's eyes widened and even Momoshirou, on his new place in the front row, couldn't help but laugh in disbelief.

Standing up there on stage Atobe Keigo didn't even look the slightest bit out of place. Rather, he appeared completely at home in the limelight; every step oozing confidence - as if he'd practicing the part all his life.

It was wonderful, Tezuka had to admit. Atobe Keigo's singing voice left nothing to be desired, and when Fuji joined him in the final duet, the world stopped moving for a moment. The gooseflesh on Inui's arms was not caused by autumn temperatures or even anything physical.

But then came the end Momoshirou had dreaded all along. The sitar player was to be executed and on a wave from the Maharajah one of the guards stepped forward. Oishi's head snapped up, and Momoshirou, too, recognized Kabaji.

Wide-eyed Tezuka stared into the barrel of a gun. The audience – still believing all was part of the play – waited with baited breath, while Fuji's struggled to remain conscious. Tezuka's arms were warm and the darkness tempting, but he knew...

With each shuddering breath he drew, he could feel his strength ebbing away and already even the bright stage lights were fading from his vision.

Cold black eyes looked down at Tezuka from underneath a guard's costume. A click, those thick, dark fingers moved and Tezuka desperately clung onto his composure.

"That's it." Was all he thought, before a sudden, decisive movement caught his eye.

The evil Maharajah, just about to oversee the execution of his greatest enemy; Atobe Keigo himself descended from his throne. Exchanging dubious glances, Eiji and Gakuto hesitantly stepped aside, allowing Atobe to advance.

Kabaji turned his head to wait for orders. Tezuka held his breath and behind the stage Oishi and Oshitari were praying for the best.

A shadow fell across Tezuka's face.

In shock he opened his eyes and witnessed the most breath-taking event he'd seen since encountering Fuji. Atobe Keigo stepped in between him and the gun – without any pompous gestures. Only one decisive step and then he stopped.

Didn't even turn to look at Tezuka and Fuji. Instead, he fixed his eyes at Kabaji before turning to the audience.

"And in the end, I finally understand." He proclaimed, acting absolutely true to his part – far better than Tezuka would ever have expected him to, "Love is a child of Liberty and won't be forced – not by money nor by reason."

Breathless, Momoshirou clung to a support beam backstage. Oishi's eyes widened and Oshitari paled, but smirked. Tezuka however, felt all blood leaving his head and his grip on the shuddering figure in his arms tightened.

Those were his words. Those words that had been so dear to Tezuka, but had been taken out of the play.

"So if you truly love someone." Atobe closed. "Set them free."

Without knowing anymore why there were tears slipping down his face, Tezuka leaned forward, heart trembling the moment he found Fuji's beautiful blue eyes meeting his. The actor practically flew in Tezuka's arms – too dizzy to walk straight or even hold himself upright anymore.

Fuji's face was horridly pale, even if the glow of the stage lights painted his cheeks a beautiful shade of gold. Tightening his arms around the smaller boy Tezuka let him slowly slide to the ground.

The smile on Fuji's face was the most beautiful thing he'd seen in his entire life. And even if he could feel each laboured, shuddering breath the actor took, he couldn't help but smile.

Those blue orbs were clouded, but still sparkling.

With all the tenderness he possessed, he leaned forward and kissed him. Fuji's lips were everything he'd ever dream of, he knew at that moment. Soft and warm and he could taste sweetness underneath the metallic tang of blood.

A weak hand reached out, tangling in his hair even if it trembled from the effort.

If only this moment could last forever.

If only time could stop.

Atobe turned, blinking away the tears burning in his own voice. His heart ached, but this, he understood, had been the right decision. Regardless of what people would say – having seen the smile on Fuji's face was justification enough.

Looking out proudly over the see of enchanted faces, he forced himself to smile and complete the play with a deep bow.

Slowly, almost hesitantly the audience started clapping. Eiji and Gakuto exchanged a glance, before bowing, too and the other actors followed.

Tears glittered in the dim lightening, as the clapping rose to a thunderstorm. Chairs were shoved backwards, as the first persons stood up – and faced with the standing ovation Momoshirou wiped at his eyes.

This was everything they'd ever dreamed of.

Everything they'd worked so hard for.

But Fuji, wrapped securely in Tezuka's arms, wasn't moving. A beautiful smile still lingered on blood-red lips, even if his chest had stopped rising and falling. The small white hand that had formerly been buried in Tezuka's hair lied motionlessly on the cold floor.

Tezuka silently hid his face away, drawing the still body closer to him. Fuji's skin was still warm and soft and somehow he didn't want to believe that here, among golden spotlights and roaring applause, everything had come to an end.

And then, the curtain fell.

_The End._

* * *

i Crossing the Rubicon – back when Cesar wasn't yet supreme ruler, he crossed a river named Rubicon with his army and the act started a war which resulted in him becoming the big boss

ii Ladies of the water – the Norns (Skuld, Urd and Verdandi) that weave the threads of Fate

iii snakes and eagles – references to Nietzsche; animals heralding – broadly spoken – a change of the world

iv Gentlemen in Vienna – means Sigmund Freud and contemporaries

v referring to Kant's categorical imperative


End file.
